“No,” I say. “You loved being loved by me.”
He looks down.
Maybe that hurts him.
Maybe it should.
“I was under pressure.”
“You were under ambition.”
“Serena—”
“Was not married to me.”
He stops.
Then he says, “I need the house issue settled. If you testify that you knew about the mortgage structure, it helps me with the bank.”
I stare at him.
There it is.
Buried under exhaustion, softened by memory, dressed as necessity.
Still the same request.
Lie for me.
Shrink for me.
Bleed for me.
I stand.
The mediator says my name, startled.
But I am already picking up my purse.
“I came here to end a marriage,” I say. “Not resume my old job.”
Nathan looks up.
“What job?”
“Saving you from yourself.”
I leave before he can answer.
Two months later, the divorce is granted.
I keep the Oakridge house.
I keep my business.
I keep my accounts.
Nathan keeps the debts that can be traced to him, which is almost all of them. He also keeps the investigations, lawsuits, shame, and the memory of a ring striking glass while he was too arrogant to stop dancing.
On the day the decree is signed, Vivian hands me the certified copy and waits.
I expect triumph.
I expect relief.
Instead, I feel quiet.
Deeply, strangely quiet.
“Is that normal?” I ask.