Chapter 9: Bowed in Shame
The following days passed in silence. Zane didn’t return. Nova didn’t call.
On the day the divorce agreement took effect, she went alone to the court.
The clerk handed her the divorce decree. Nova accepted it calmly. Her fingertip traced the embossed gold lettering: DIVORCE CERTIFICATE.
Not a ripple stirred in her heart.
Outside, morning light still washed the streets.
She hailed a cab to Blackthorn Manor for her final belongings. But as she opened the door-
Zane stood in the foyer, impeccably suited.
“Where were you?”
She opened her mouth-
“Our anniversary,” he concluded, his tone assured. “Out buying my gift?”
Nova froze.
Of course.
Three years ago today, they’d exchanged vows amid applause.
That same night, he’d handed her divorce papers. This marriage is transactional. Don’t confuse it for real.
Three years. Then freedom.
The cruel symmetry–Their marriage ended exactly when it began.
And Zane’s assumption made bitter sense.
Every year prior, she’d presented meticulously chosen gifts–despite him never remembering the date.
Why remember now?
Did he recall today was also their contract’s expiration?
Nova’s fingers tightened around the divorce decree in her bag. She offered a thin smile. “Yes. Getting your gift.”
These papers were the best anniversary present he’d ever receive.
Zane nodded, already moving past her. “I’m taking Ivy skiing in Helvemont tomorrow. So tonight, we’ll celebrate.” He checked his Patek Philippe. “Reservations at La Maison’s penthouse. Give me the gift there. Let’s go,‘
He snatched his jacket off the chair, heading for the door.
Nova didn’t follow.
He turned, impatient. “What’s the holdup?”
She almost said it; I’m leaving for good.
Instead, she grasped for an excuse. “Something needs finishing here. Go ahead. I’ll join you later.”
Zane, detecting nothing amiss, gave a curt “Hn” and left.
Nova stood at the floor–to–ceiling window. Watched his black sedan exit the gates. Disappear around the bend.
Three years.
Chapter 9 Bowed in Shame
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His first time remembering their anniversary.
Her first time not caring.
Slowly, she withdrew the pristine divorce decree from her bag. Placed it on the glass coffee table.
Then she lifted her packed suitcase. Closed the door without a sound.
Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating two objects left behind–divorce certificate.
Sunlight glared off the zeros–a dizzying parade of emptiness. Enough to rebuild empires, yet incapable of rewoven heirlooms or resurrecting three years of surrendered heartbeats.
