The President Is Chasing His Wife at the Crematorium

"Sign here, here, and initial here."

Damien's voice was as cold as the marble desk between us, like he was closing a business deal rather than ending our marriage. I watched his manicured finger tap each yellow sticky tab marking where my signature would dissolve three years of my life into nothing.

I should have felt something. Rage, maybe. Devastation. The kind of emotion that matched the moment. Instead, I felt hollow, like someone had scooped out my insides and left only the shell of who I used to be.

"Elara? Did you hear me?"

I blinked, focusing on his face. Damien looked impeccable as always, his dark hair perfectly styled, his charcoal suit probably worth more than everything I owned. His jaw was tight with impatience, and he kept glancing at his watch. Of course. He had a flight to catch. London waited for no one, certainly not for a wife he'd stopped seeing years ago.

"I heard you." My voice came out steadier than I expected.

I picked up the pen he'd placed precisely in the center of the folder. It was heavy, probably some luxury brand that cost more than my first car. Everything in Damien's world was expensive, beautiful, and ultimately meaningless.

The first signature went down easily. Elara Bennett Cross, soon to be just Elara Bennett again. I'd hyphenated my name when we married because I thought we were building something together. What a joke.

"The settlement is generous," Damien said, shuffling papers on his desk like this conversation bored him. "More than fair, considering the prenup. My lawyers wanted to offer less, but I told them to be reasonable."

How magnanimous. I wanted to laugh, but the sound would probably come out broken.

"Thank you," I said instead, signing the second page. My handwriting looked shaky next to the bold confidence of the legal text.

"You'll retain access to the apartment until you find somewhere suitable. Take your time, within reason. A month should be sufficient."

A month to pack up three years. To erase myself from the penthouse that had never felt like home anyway. I'd spent so many nights wandering those empty rooms, waiting for him to come home, to see me, to remember I existed.

I signed the third page, then the fourth. The pen scratched across paper, each stroke a tiny amputation.

"Elara."

Something in his tone made me look up. For a second, just a fraction of a moment, I thought I saw something in his dark eyes. Regret, maybe. Hesitation. But then he blinked and it was gone, replaced by that familiar professional distance.

"I want you to know this isn't personal."

The laugh escaped before I could stop it. It sounded sharp and ugly in his pristine office.

"Not personal?" I repeated. "Damien, we're married. We took vows. How is divorce not personal?"

He had the audacity to look confused, like I'd said something in a foreign language.