His Signature on My Freedom

Nine times out of ten, her posts would either mention me by name or she’d add me to her "Close Friends" list for a private viewing.

In the past, these petty provocations always got to me.

I would argue with Grayson, fight with him.

And every time, he’d just wave it off. "Sienna's just a friend. You're my wife. Don't make a scene."

Grayson was sure of my love for him, certain I would never abandon the business we'd built together. So he basked in the drama, letting our two-woman-one-man show feed his pathetic ego.

I stared at the screen and smiled, my heart numb.

Suddenly, a colleague beside me muttered, "Look, the boss's rumored girlfriend is here again."

I followed her gaze.

Sienna, teetering on Jimmy Choo heels, swayed into Grayson’s glass-walled office.

A moment later, the smart blinds slowly descended, shielding the couple from the prying eyes of the entire open-plan office.

I lowered my eyes, my thoughts drifting back.

Shortly after the firm was founded, Grayson had pinned me against a desk cluttered with design drawings in this very office.

His eyes had held a strange gleam as he’d leaned in, whispering in my ear. "Isn't this thrilling? Like we're having an affair. The whole team is working overtime just outside, and we have to keep our voices down."

He held me, his sweat beading on my collarbone.

"Once we land the next big project, we'll have our wedding party. I'll announce us to all of New York, make you the most dazzling Mrs. Vaughn."

I smiled at the memory of my naive, pathetic past self—the girl who fell for the sweet lies he spun time and again to keep me in line.

And he'd fooled me. For three years. Eleven goddamn times.

Now, with the divorce papers and my resignation letter in my bag, there would be no next time.

Two hours later, as my colleagues and I were organizing the work handover, a message from Grayson popped up: [Bring me an espresso.]

He was notoriously picky; only I knew the precise bean origin and grind size he preferred.

In the entire firm, I was the only one who could make it to his satisfaction.

I sighed and stood up, deciding to treat it as one final act of charity.

I didn't expect to find Sienna at the kitchenette’s island, touching up her makeup.

She saw my reflection in the mirror, a contemptuous smirk playing on her lips.

"Your temper's improved, Rachel. I thought you'd storm into his office like a banshee, trying to stake your claim."

She deliberately lifted her chin, flashing a black card from her wallet—the key to Grayson's penthouse.

"Is that so?" I dropped my gaze and reached for the coffee beans.

"Would you like a cup? The flavor is excellent."

My composure stunned her. Her hand, holding a lipstick, froze in mid-air.