On my wedding day, my husband and my adopted stepsister proudly held their newborn twins and announced it to me.

Then Derek pulled documents from inside his tuxedo jacket.

“Divorce papers,” he said smoothly. “Already drafted. Clean and simple. You leave quietly with dignity, and I keep what matters.”

“What matters?” I asked.

“The company shares after the merger,” he replied under his breath. “The apartment. The gifts. Relax, Maya. I’ll be generous.”

I nearly smiled.

For two years, Derek called me patient. Sweet. Useful.

He confused silence with stupidity.

He confused kindness with weakness.

I accepted the papers calmly.

Lena blinked in confusion. She expected screaming, not cooperation.

A nearby waiter held a silver pen meant for the guest book.

I took it and signed every highlighted page without hesitation.

Derek’s grin flickered slightly.