Returning home, the manor felt emptier than ever. Lorenz did not return that night, nor the next. I tried to distract myself, but a persistent unease kept me restless.
A few days later, another post: Emily in Paris for Fashion Week. And there was Lorenz, beside her again, pride and devotion clear in the curve of his posture, the brightness in his gaze.
Each image twisted something inside me. Photos of him celebrating her birthday at her parents’ home, his arm protective around her, his lips brushing her cheek—my stomach knotted with frustration and fury.
“Why don’t they just move in together already?” I muttered, a sting of jealousy cutting through the ache.
Finally, I could hold back no longer.
My pulse raced as I threw my phone aside, gathered my things, and told the driver to take me to the courthouse. This time, hesitation had no place.
I signed the divorce papers, my signature decisive, resolute. No more doubt, no more waiting. I reclaimed my life.
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A few days later, Lorenz returned from Paris.
That evening, I prepared a quiet dinner for us, the first time in weeks we had sat across from one another. Calm and focused, the divorce papers lay neatly beside my plate.