But my body still remembers what my heart is desperately trying to forget. My mind slips back to that night in Vegas. Where it felt like everything belonged to us. I remember the way he held me, as if I were something breakable and holy. The way he undressed me with his hands and his eyes, intent on capturing every inch of me before the ghost of the moment could vanish.
The way he kissed me. The way we used to make love.
His Ms. Mysterious.
He said it like I was his secret weapon. His favorite discovery. His personal plot twist in a story he hadn’t seen coming.
That night, he promised me he’d never met a woman like me.
Said he’d never let me go.
And I believed him.
Every single word.
Because when he touched me, it didn’t feel like a lie. Or even our one night pact.
It felt likeforever.
I stare down at the polished table in front of me, wishing I could scrub away the feeling rising in my chest. The ache. The question.
How the hell did we get here?
It was one night. But it waseverything.
And now it's being erased in less than an hour with coffee, bullet points, and barely-dry signatures.
Chelsea looks between us, her practiced producer’s smile softening into something almost human. “I just have to ask one more time. Are you both absolutely sure this is what you want?” she asks gently.
I glance at Luca.
He doesn’t look at me. He doesn't blink or even seem to breathe. He just stares straight ahead, his jaw tight and his voice clipped.
“Yes,” he says.
That single word slices me open.
“Luca,” I say. I hear it before I can stop myself and I hate it. The way it sounds like I’m begging him to end this madness. To drop the stubborn act and remember the night we made those promises.
Promises that felt as permanent as the ink on these papers.
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t flinch.
God.
How can he let this go? After everything we shared. After everything it felt like itcouldhave been.
How could he not fight?
I look at Chelsea. Then at the lawyers.
My voice is clear, even though I feel like I’m falling apart inside. “I just want to go on record,” I speak up. “And sayno. I’mnotsure I want to do this. In fact, Idon’twant this.”
I turn to him. “Luca.”
Nothing.
I have always hated the taste of a plea. There is a hollow, aching humiliation in wanting someone more than they want you, and I am not that woman. I refuse to linger in rooms where the air has gone cold, and the door stands halfway closed. I was raised to know my worth, to leave before I am asked, to exit while my pride is still intact.
