The hysteria that usually clawed at my chest in these moments—the begging, the tears—stayed silent. I pulled the divorce agreement from my bag and placed it in the nurse's trembling hands.
"Adrian wins."
1.
The antiseptic chill of the hospital fell away as I stepped outside. I returned to the villa.
*Our* home. *Our* sanctuary.
I packed my belongings in silence. Just as I opened the door to leave, I collided with a solid chest.
Adrian.
"Fiona. What is the meaning of this?"
His voice was low. Dangerous. Between his fingers, he held the divorce papers I had signed only an hour ago.
"It means exactly what it says." I met his gaze without flinching. "Or has the brilliant Dr. Farley forgotten how to read?"
Confusion flickered across his face—genuine, uncomprehending. As if he couldn't fathom why I would ever want to leave. In his mind, we were perfect. Childhood sweethearts who'd walked down the aisle. A man who'd sacrificed his career for his dying wife. When I lay in the ICU with machines breathing for me, he'd knelt on the cold hospital tiles and prayed to a God neither of us believed in.