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I shouldn’t have expected that, though. Walker had come to me so that he could get money, after all. He hadn’t come to me because he missed me. He hadn’t come to me because he had seen my art.
Nope. I’d fallen ass-first into a cleaning cart, and he had seen an opportunity to get what he needed from his father’s will.
So damn romantic.
Preemptively packing up my art room the day after our last heart-breaking conversation, I thought back to the first time I had faced losing Walker Prince. The unbearably long silence that’d followed after he moved to Tokyo with his dad had left a huge crater in my overall outlook on love.
What had I been thinking, trying to fill the hole in my heart with this insane scheme? It made me no better than Walker, at the end of the day. He wasn’t the only person cutting a paycheck out of this arrangement.
Maybe Walker and I truly weren’t meant to be. Maybe the two of us were just meant to blip in and out of each other’s lives, like a stray idea that could never quite come to fruition. If that’s all we were destined for, then at least I’d own it, even if it pained me to do so. I wouldn’t fight to cling to something that had never really existed in the first place.
* * *
“And you’ll sign here, and here… Good, here as well… Wonderful.”
Wonderful. That’s what Vincent Marguiles, Walker’s lawyer, was calling this.
I signed my name on the dotted line, agreeing to the terms of the divorce. It was a pretty standard document, according to Vincent, that stated I had no stakes in Walker’s company, that we’re parting on amicable terms, and that as his ex-wife I’d be entitled to a year of health insurance under his provider as well as a hefty monetary compensation—just like Walker had agreed.
I almost couldn’t fathom the number that’d been scrawled out over the check Vincent drew up. There were too many zeros; I had no way to quantify them, no way to make them real in my head. I was going to be a millionaire.
That was the price for pretending to have Walker Prince’s love.
There was a fog in my brain as the meeting continued on. Walker signed on his own dotted lines, quiet and more than a little stoic. We hadn’t conversed much since the short-lived discussion about our divorce. We’d maintained polite civility around the house, but that was about all we could manage. I had invited him out a total of once to walk Bruno with me; he’d declined—politely, of course, since that’s all we ever were to each other now—and I’d taken the dog on a long, solitary walk, tears streaming down my cheeks.
When the last signature was put down, Vincent nodded in satisfaction and gathered the paperwork. I had a hollow ache in my chest as I pocketed the check. It felt weightier than paper should. I wondered if the money was the reason so many people married billionaires, and if the pain ended up being worth it in the end when they finally cut the chord on their relationship.
“Well. All of this should be fine and dandy. Everything will be finalized at the courthouse, which I assume you’ve made an appointment for?”
Walker nodded. “Just last week.”
My jaw clenched as I fought against the tears stinging my eyes. I’d overheard him on the phone making the call. He’d sounded so clinical, so distant. As if it was already over.
Vincent nodded again and looked toward me, holding his hand out to shake. “Pleasure meeting you, Mackenzie. Though unfortunate, under the circumstances.”
“Uh huh.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “Pleasure to meet you as well, Vincent.”
We got up, leaving Vincent’s office together in silence. It was a quiet, awkward trek down to the lobby. I was less than three feet away from Walker, but the space between us felt like an ocean. Shivering, although it wasn’t particularly cold, I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets. The check felt like sandpaper against my skin.
“We’ve got an hour or so before the courthouse meeting.” Walker looked at me, his cobalt eyes dark and unreadable. “Do you… want to grab lunch?”
Tempting. Too tempting.
Make a clean break, Macks. Take a page out of his book.
“No,” I said. “It’ll take too long to go grab a bite and then be back in time to make the appointment.”
It would have been an amazing excuse to put this off a little longer though. Oh, sorry, we’ll have to reschedule because we were too busy stuffing our faces instead of making our way over to get our divorce sent through.
“Right,” Walker said. “I guess we should head on down then.”
Instead of taking a cab or a town car, we walked. It wasn’t that far away, and part of me was glad to avoid getting into a confined space with Walker right now. I didn’t want to have to smell his cologne, to feel the heat of his body so close to mine. But walking took longer, and every step seemed like a march down the Green Mile. Neither of us spoke. The air seemed heavier than usual—even for New York. I kept an intentional distance from him, only stepping closer when I had to get out of another pedestrian’s way.
It seemed almost cruel to have to do all of this on the same day. Finalizing our post-nuptials, cutting my check, filing for divorce. I wondered if it was a sign that Walker was just particularly ready to get rid of me; he must be really anxious to go back to the life that I’d been only temporarily inserted into.
“Here we are.”
Pulled from my thoughts by his voice, I looked up to the front stairs of the courthouse. They appeared so much more ominous than they had the day Walker and I had gotten married. Each step up made my stomach sink a little further. I felt sick.
