Chapter 4

"Sign the papers, Isabella," I said, my voice flat. I nudged the watch box back towards her with my foot. "That's all I want from you."

"You always were so dramatic." She picked up the box, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. "This is a Patek Philippe. Do you know how much this costs?"

"I know how much our marriage cost me. Sign the damn papers."

She sighed, a put-upon sound. "Alex and I were just celebrating. A business deal. You're blowing this out of proportion."

"Celebrating your deal by buying me a watch? Or was it a guilt offering because you forgot you were still married while you were 'celebrating' with him?" I walked to the door and opened it wide. "Get out."

"Fine," she snapped. "But you're making a mistake." She turned to leave, then paused. "You know, Sophia always said you were too sensitive for your own good." Sophia. Her loyal lapdog, her chief enabler. "She also helped draft our prenup, remember? The one that heavily favors me if you contest the divorce. Maybe you should be nicer."

The prenup. Right. The one her father's high-powered lawyers, at Sophia's urging, had pushed through. At the time, I was too blinded by what I thought was love to care. Now, it was just another piece of leverage for her. But Ms. Albright had already reviewed it. It wasn't as ironclad as Isabella thought, especially given her documented infidelity.

"The prenup also stipulates a clean break in case of... irreconcilable differences," I said, quoting a phrase Ms. Albright had highlighted. "Which we clearly have. Just sign, Isabella. It'll be quicker for everyone."

She glared at me, then stormed out, slamming the door behind her. The cheap doorframe rattled.

The next day, I got a notification from the court's online portal. Isabella had been officially served. The clock was ticking for her response. I felt a surge of relief. It was actually happening.

I spent the week setting up my apartment. New locks, a new bed, a cheap but comfortable couch. I bought groceries, real food, not just takeout. It felt good to build something, even something small, that was entirely my own.

The silence from Isabella was deafening, and deeply suspicious.

Then, the following Monday, I received an urgent email from Ms. Albright. "Jake, call me ASAP."

My stomach clenched. "What's wrong?" I asked as soon as she picked up.

"Isabella Rossi filed a response," Ms. Albright said, her voice tight. "She's contesting the divorce. She's claiming reconciliation efforts are underway and that you filed in bad faith to extort money for... your father's medical bills?"

I was speechless. "My father? My father passed away two years ago. She means *her* father, Mr. Harrison. And I'm not extorting anyone!"

"I know, Jake. It's a classic delay tactic, and a nasty one. She's trying to muddy the waters, make you look unreasonable. She also filed a motion to compel mediation, in person."

"Mediation? After this?"

"It buys her time. And it forces you into a room with her. Don't worry. We'll fight it. But it means this won't be as quick as we hoped."

My brief sense of freedom evaporated. She was going to drag this out, make it as painful as possible. Of course she was. That was Isabella.