“Sign this or I’ll drag this out for years,” my husband spat at me, shoving the papers I paid for in full into the attic. He was smiling as if throwing me out would break me.

I looked at the file. Divorce. Division of assets. No custody, because we had no children. But the house—listed as the “family residence.” He wanted to keep it, sell it later, and walk away with the trophy.

“Either you sign and leave today,” he added with a tight smile, “or we make this ugly.”

I could have argued. I could have cried. I could have reminded him that without me, he’d still be renting a room in a shared flat. But I understood something in that moment: Dario was waiting for exactly that—my reaction. He wanted to see me beg so he could later label me “unstable.”

I stepped closer to the counter and picked up the pen.

“So this is what you want?” I asked.

“It’s what I deserve,” he replied, without blinking.

I signed. One page. Two. Three. No trembling. No quickened breath. As if I were signing for a delivery, not an ending.

Dario blinked, caught off guard. His grin widened.

“I knew you’d be reasonable in the end,” he said.

I placed the keys on the counter beside the fruit bowl. I walked to the penthouse’s private elevator and didn’t turn around. The sharp click of the door closing sounded like a gunshot.