Signed The Papers: Watch Me Shine Now

The heavy Montblanc pen felt cold and metallic against Faith's skin. Her signature sat fresh on all three copies—black ink, sharp and final. Hartwell loomed over the marble island, his broad chest rising and falling. He stared at the documents, waiting for her to start negotiating. Waiting for her to demand more millions, more properties, proving his six-year theory right. But Faith simply capped the pen and slid it back toward Irving. "There," she said. "It's done." She stood up from the stool and walked toward the master bedroom. Her spine was straight. Her footsteps echoed in the silent penthouse. Hartwell stood frozen for a moment, then followed her. He stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, watching as she pulled her battered black suitcase out from the back of the closet. "What are you doing?" he demanded. Faith threw the suitcase open on the floor. She walked past the rows of custom-tailored Chanel suits and Hermès bags—she didn't touch them. She reached into the far corner and pulled out her own cheap jeans and plain blouses, the ones she had bought with money she'd saved over the years. "Packing," she said flatly. "The agreement gives you seventy-two hours to vacate. I'm giving you a head start." Hartwell's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "You're not kicking me out of my own home." Faith looked up at him. Her eyes were cold and calm. "Your name just came off the deed, Hartwell. This is my home now. And Leo's. You signed it away." The words hit him like a physical blow. His face went pale. He had signed the penthouse over to her. He had done it to ensure Leo stayed in a familiar environment—and to make the divorce go smoothly. But standing here, watching her pack his belongings into garbage bags, the reality of what he had agreed to crashed down on him. He stepped into the room. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "You think you can just take my son, take my apartment, and walk away?" Faith stopped packing. She turned to face him fully. "Take your son?" she repeated. Her voice was quiet, but it cut like a blade. "You gave him away. You signed over sole custody without even asking for weekends. You don't want him, Hartwell. You never have." A muscle ticked violently in his jaw. "That's not true." "Isn't it?" Faith took a step toward him. "When was the last time you went to one of Leo's school events? When was the last time you read him a bedtime story? You look at that boy and all you see is the night you were forced to marry me. He's not your son to you. He's a reminder." Hartwell's chest heaved. He wanted to argue, to deny it. But the words wouldn't come. Because she was right. Faith turned back to the closet. She pulled down a stack of Hartwell's cashmere sweaters and dumped them into an empty garbage bag. "I'm not touching your couture," she said over her shoulder. "You have seventy-two hours to arrange for movers. Until then, you can sleep in one of the guest rooms—or better yet, go stay with Eveline. I'm sure she has space." Hartwell grabbed her wrist. His grip was tight, bruising. "You're enjoying this." Faith looked down at his hand, then up at his face. Her expression was pure revulsion. "I'm enjoying nothing about this," she said. "I'm finally free. That's not enjoyment. That's survival." She wrenched her arm free. Then she walked over to the vanity. She shoved aside the velvet boxes containing millions of dollars in diamonds—engagement ring, anniversary bands, all of it. She picked up a tarnished silver locket, the only thing her mother had left her, and clasped it around her neck. She did not touch a single piece of jewelry he had given her. Hartwell watched her. His breathing was shallow, ragged. The penthouse—his penthouse—was no longer his. His son—his only child—was no longer legally connected to him except through a monthly check. His wife—the woman he had spent six years ignoring—was standing in front of him, looking at him like he was a stranger. No. Worse than a stranger. An enemy. Faith zipped her suitcase shut and dragged it toward the bedroom door. "Where are you going?" he demanded. "To Quinn's," she said without turning around. "I'll be back in three days. I expect you to be gone by then." She walked down the long corridor, her suitcase wheels bumping over the hardwood. She reached the massive double doors of the entryway and stopped. She let go of the handle and turned to face the marble console table. Faith raised her left hand. With her right thumb and index finger, she gripped the platinum band of her wedding ring—the flawless five-carat emerald-cut diamond. Heavy. Cold. She pulled it over her knuckle. It slid off, leaving behind a pale, indented ring of skin. She placed the ring down on the marble. Clink. The sharp sound of metal hitting stone echoed in the quiet foyer. She didn't look back. She opened the front door, pulled her suitcase through, and stepped into the hallway. The heavy door swung shut behind her, severing the last physical thread between them.