Chapter 8 The Divorce
The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter for three days.
Veyra looked at them every morning while she drank her coffee. She looked at them every night before she went to sleep. She had printed three copies. One for the lawyers. One for Caspian. One for herself, to remind herself that this was real.
Caspian had not signed them. He had looked at them, laughed, and thrown them in the trash.
"You don’t have the balls," he had said. "You’re too scared to actually leave."
She had picked the papers out of the trash and smoothed them flat. She had not argued. Arguing with Caspian was like arguing with a brick wall. The wall never changed its mind. It just stood there, heavy and immovable, waiting for you to exhaust yourself.
So she had stopped arguing. And she had started planning.
The trap was simple. Too simple, maybe. But Caspian had one weakness, and it was the same weakness that had destroyed their marriage: he was lazy. He did not read things carefully. He signed whatever she put in front of him because he assumed she was too stupid to trick him.
She had been counting on that.
The surgical consent form arrived by courier on a Tuesday. It was for a procedure she did not need, on a date she would not keep, at a hospital she had never visited. But Caspian would not know that. All he would see was the word surgery and the space for his signature as her spouse.
She placed it on top of the divorce papers. The same font. The same spacing. The same legal formatting.
Then she called him into the kitchen.
"I need you to sign this," she said. Her voice was steady. She had practiced in the mirror. "It’s for my ankle. The hospital needs spousal consent before they can operate."
He glanced at the paper. His eyes moved over the text. She could see him not reading it. She could see him already bored.
"Where do I sign?"
She pointed to the line. Right above the line that said I hereby consent to the dissolution of marriage in font so small it was almost invisible.
He signed.
She watched his pen move across the paper. Watched his name take shape in his familiar handwriting. Caspian Thorne. He had signed their marriage certificate the same way. The same loops. The same slant.
He had signed away his marriage without even reading it.
She waited until he left the room. Then she picked up the paper, folded it carefully, and placed it in an envelope.
Her hands were shaking.
She was not sure if it was fear or relief.
*
*
The courthouse was the same one where they had gotten married.
Veyra stood at the bottom of the steps and looked up at the gray stone building and felt nothing. No nostalgia. No sadness. Just a dull, empty quiet where her heart used to be.
Dorian was already inside. He had arrived early, because he was the type of man who arrived early to everything. His lawyers were there. Her lawyers were there. A judge was there, because Dorian Thorne could make a judge appear on a Tuesday afternoon with twenty-four hours’ notice.
She walked up the steps. Her ankle still hurt. The fracture was healing, but slowly. She used a cane. The cane made her feel old and broken, but she used it anyway because she could not afford to fall.
The ceremony took seven minutes.
Seven minutes to undo seven years.
Dorian stood beside her at the altar. He was wearing a dark suit with no tie. His hair was neat for once. He looked like a man attending a funeral, which was fitting, because that was exactly what this was.
The judge read the words. Veyra said I do in a voice that did not sound like her own. Dorian said I do in a voice that sounded exactly like him, flat, controlled and unreadable.
They signed the marriage certificate. His signature was sharp and efficient. Hers was shaky.
The judge pronounced them married.
And then it was over.
Dorian turned to her. He held out the marriage certificate. His fingers brushed hers and it was warm and brief.
"I have to fly abroad," he said. "Urgent business. I’ll be back in three days."
She nodded.
"I’ll send someone to bring you to the house," he said. "You’ll live there until the child is born. That’s the agreement."
"I remember."
He looked at her for a moment. His gray eyes moved over her face like he was memorizing something. Then he turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor. She watched him go.
She was married to a stranger.
Again.
*
*
*
He offered to drive her home.
She said no.
She said it too fast, and she saw something flicker across his face. Annoyance, maybe. Or curiosity. She did not care. She could not let him see the apartment. Could not let him see the stained carpet and the broken stove and the life she had built with a man who had destroyed her.
"I’ll take a cab," she said.
He did not argue. He just nodded and got into his car and drove away.
The cab dropped her off at the apartment building at four in the afternoon. The sky was gray. The air smelled like rain. She limped up the stairs, one at a time, her cane tapping on each step.
The apartment door was unlocked.
She pushed it open. The lights were off. The air inside was warm and still. She heard a sound from the bedroom. A familiar sound. Soft and rhythmic and wet.
She knew that sound.
She had heard it through the glass door at his office. She had heard it on the plane, coming from Xiomara’s phone. She knew exactly what it was.
She should have walked away. She should have called her lawyer. She should have done anything except what she did next.
She pulled out her phone. She turned on the camera. And she walked toward the bedroom.
The door was open a crack. She could see through it. Caspian was on the bed. Xiomara was on top of him with his cock buried in her pussy. Their bodies moved together in a rhythm that made Veyra’s stomach turn.
She raised her phone. She pressed record.
And then the floor creaked.
Xiomara’s head snapped toward the door. Her eyes found Veyra’s. Her mouth curved into that same lazy, satisfied smile.
"Looks like we have a guest," Xiomara said.
Caspian froze. He turned his head. When he saw Veyra, his face went through a series of expressions. Guilt, fear and anger. In that order.
"Veyra—"
She turned to run. Her ankle screamed. She made it three steps before Xiomara’s hand grabbed her hair and yanked her backward.
"Where do you think you’re going?"
Veyra fell. Her cane clattered to the floor. Her ankle twisted beneath her and the pain was so sharp she saw stars.
Caspian stood in the bedroom doorway. He was pulling on his pants. His face was red.
"Put her in the spare room," he said.
Xiomara dragged her down the hall. Veyra kicked and scratched and tried to scream, but Xiomara’s hand was over her mouth. The spare room was small. A closet, really. A bed that smelled like dust and with a window that did not open.
Xiomara threw her inside. Veyra hit the floor. Her hip connected with the wooden boards.
"Stay," Xiomara said. Like she was talking to a dog.
The door slammed and the lock clicked.
Veyra lay on the floor in the dark and listened to their footsteps fade away.