TOO CUTE TO HANDLE

"Sign them, Maya. I don't have all night."

The words hit me harder than the cold draft rattling the penthouse windows. I froze, the silver tray in my hands trembling. On it sat two glasses of vintage champagne and a small, velvet box-my gift to him for our third secret anniversary.

I forced a smile, though my heart was already beginning to hammer against my ribs. "Julian? It's nearly midnight. We're supposed to be celebrating. You said after tonight, we wouldn't have to hide anymore."

Julian Vane didn't look at the champagne. He didn't look at me. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, his tailored suit jacket discarded, looking every bit the cold, ruthless billionaire the world feared. On the mahogany desk between us lay a thick stack of papers.

The word DIVORCE stared back at me in bold, uncompromising ink.

"The three years are up, Maya," he said, his voice as flat as a dial tone. "The arrangement has served its purpose. My father's estate is settled, my position as CEO is secure, and I no longer require a wife."

"A requirement?" My voice cracked, a lump rising in my throat that felt like swallowing glass. "Is that all I've been to you? A business box you needed to check?"

He finally turned, his eyes icy and devoid of the warmth I thought I'd seen there just last week. "Don't make this emotional. You knew the terms. You got your tuition paid, your mother's medical bills covered. You've been compensated."