Signed The Papers: Watch Me Shine Now

The harsh glare of the desk lamp cut through the darkness of the Upper East Side penthouse.

Faith Owens sat hunched over the massive marble island in her study. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to rub away the gritty exhaustion. Her neck ached with a dull, throbbing rhythm.

She picked up her drafting pencil, forcing her focus back to the architectural blueprints spread out before her.

The sudden, violent vibration of her phone against the marble shattered the dead silence of the room.

The screen lit up. Quinn Baxter.

Faith picked it up. The heavy, thumping bass of a nightclub bled through the speaker before Quinn even spoke.

"Faith." Quinn's voice was breathless, sharp with an urgency that made the hairs on Faith's arms stand up. "Are you sitting down?"

"I'm working," Faith said, her voice raspy from disuse. "What's wrong?"

A sharp intake of breath hissed through the receiver. "My friend just got back from Paris. She was at JFK arrivals ten minutes ago. She sent me a picture."

Faith's heart skipped a beat. A cold, heavy stone dropped into the pit of her stomach. Her fingers tightened around the metal barrel of her drafting pencil.

"What picture, Quinn?"

"It's Hartwell," Quinn spat, the name dripping with venom. "He went to the airport. He picked up Eveline Craig."

The air in Faith's lungs vanished.

The pencil in her hand jerked. The graphite tip snapped, tearing a jagged, ugly black line straight across her meticulous floor plan.

A soft ping echoed from the phone. Quinn had sent the image.

Faith's hand shook so violently she could barely pull the phone away from her ear. The blue light of the screen washed over her pale face.

The photo was grainy, zoomed in from a distance, but the subjects were unmistakable.

Hartwell. Her husband of six years.

He was wearing his custom charcoal Tom Ford suit. His broad shoulders were angled downward, protective and intimate. His large hand rested firmly, possessively, on the small of a woman's waist.

It was a gesture of tender devotion Faith had never, not once, received in two thousand days of marriage.

Leaning into his chest, looking up at him with a fragile, flawless smile, was Eveline Craig. The perfect New York socialite. The woman Hartwell had always loved.

A wave of pure, physiological nausea crashed over Faith.

Acid burned the back of her throat. She clamped her free hand over her mouth, her stomach convulsing.

The phone slipped from her sweaty palm. It hit the marble countertop with a sickening crack.

The sound echoed off the high ceilings of the empty, cavernous penthouse. No one came running. No one asked if she was okay. She was utterly alone.

"Faith?" Quinn's voice was a tinny yell from the dropped device. "He's a piece of trash. Do not let him do this to you anymore. You have to end this dead marriage."

Faith swallowed the bile in her throat. She picked up the phone with numb fingers.

"I know," she whispered.

She pressed end.

The silence rushed back in, suffocating and absolute. Faith turned her head, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the glittering, indifferent skyline of Manhattan. The isolation swallowed her whole.

She slid off the high stool. Her legs felt like water. She had to grip the edge of the cold marble island just to keep from collapsing to the floor.

Slowly, she forced herself to walk.

Down the long, shadowed hallway. Past the priceless art she wasn't allowed to touch. She stopped in front of the heavy oak doors of the master suite.

She pushed them open. The air inside was sterile and freezing.

Faith walked straight into the massive walk-in closet. The space was aggressively divided. Hartwell's rows of dark, immaculate suits consumed eighty percent of the room.

Her eyes drifted to the far, dark corner.

Sitting there, gathering a thin layer of dust, was a battered twenty-inch suitcase. It was the only thing she had brought with her six years ago when she was forced into the Ware family.

The memory of that hotel room flashed behind her eyes like a strobe light. The dizziness. The drugs in her system. Waking up next to Hartwell with cameras flashing in her face.

He had looked at her with pure disgust, convinced she had orchestrated the entire scandal just to trap him for his money.

No matter how much she cried, no matter how much she begged him to believe she was a victim too, his only response had been a ruthless prenuptial agreement and six years of psychological torture.

Faith backed out of the closet.

She walked into the living room and sank onto the edge of the pristine white sofa. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her shins, trying to hold her own body together.

She stared up at the antique grandfather clock against the wall.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Two in the morning.

Usually, right now, she would be in the kitchen. Pouring a glass of room-temperature water, setting out two Advil on a napkin, waiting for the sound of the private elevator to announce her husband's return from a late business dinner.

But tonight, that man was wrapping his arms around another woman. Giving her the warmth he had starved Faith of for six years.

A broken, hollow sound scraped its way out of Faith's throat. It was a laugh that sounded like a sob.

The first tear fell, hot and heavy, splashing onto the back of her hand. Then another. And another.

She didn't wipe them away. She sat perfectly still in the dark, letting the saltwater track down her cheeks, mourning the death of her own pathetic, unrequited love.

Hours bled away.

The pitch-black sky outside the windows slowly bruised into a pale, ashen gray. The first sliver of dawn light pierced the glass, hitting Faith's swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

She uncurled her stiff limbs and stood up.

The agonizing vulnerability in her chest was gone. In its place was a cold, hollowed-out graveyard. For six years, she had begged, cried, and screamed, because deep down, she still harbored a pathetic, lingering sliver of hope. She had believed that if she just loved him enough, he would eventually see her. But that grainy photograph had been the key, unlocking the brutal reality she had refused to face. It showed her that these two thousand days had been nothing but a humiliating, one-sided delusion. Hope was finally dead. And with it, her tears had completely dried up.

The soft ding of the private elevator cut through the quiet hum of the penthouse air conditioning.

Faith stood motionless in the center of the living room. She turned her head, her eyes locking onto the entryway.

Heavy, confident footsteps thudded against the hardwood floor.

The front door swung open. Hartwell strode in, bringing the bitter chill of the November morning with him.

His driver, Arthur, trailed a few steps behind, silently placing Hartwell's leather briefcase on the console table before bowing his head and retreating back to the elevator.

Hartwell didn't even look at Faith.

He reached up, his long fingers impatiently yanking at the knot of his navy silk tie. He walked straight past her, heading for the wet bar to pour himself a glass of ice water.

He offered no explanation for his absence. He didn't think he owed her one.

Faith's legs felt like lead, but she forced them to move. She walked toward the bar, stopping on the opposite side of the marble counter.

Hartwell tipped his head back, downing the water. His Adam's apple bobbed against his throat.

Faith's eyes didn't look at his face. They dropped to the collar of his crisp, white custom Tom Ford shirt.

There was no visible mark, no careless smudge of makeup to betray him. But it wasn't what she saw that made her lungs seize. It was what she smelled. The air was sucked out of the room. Her stomach violently rolled over. Beneath the crisp scent of the winter air and his expensive cologne, there was a heavy, cloying note of synthetic rose perfume. Eveline's signature scent. It clung to his clothes, to his skin, weaving through the space between them like a toxic, invisible branding iron pressed directly against her senses.

Hartwell lowered the glass. He caught the direction of her dead stare.

He saw the subtle flare of her nostrils, the way her body instinctively recoiled from his proximity.

For a fraction of a second, a flicker of unnatural stiffness crossed his sharp features. But it vanished instantly, replaced by a mask of cold, arrogant irritation.

"Don't look at me with that pathetic victim expression, Faith," Hartwell snapped, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Faith's hands dropped to her sides. She curled her fingers inward, her nails biting so hard into her palms that the sharp pain was the only thing keeping her upright.

"Did you go to JFK last night?" Faith asked. Her voice was terrifyingly quiet. "Were you with Eveline?"

Hartwell's jaw clenched. His eyes darkened into a furious storm.

He slammed the heavy glass tumbler down onto the marble. Water sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the counter.

He leaned across the bar, his massive frame casting a shadow over her.

"Are you having me followed again?" he demanded, his voice dripping with venom.

The sheer audacity of the accusation hit Faith like a physical blow. The humiliation of six years ago-when he accused her of hiring the paparazzi to photograph them in bed-came rushing back, suffocating her.

She looked at the man she had worshipped for six years. He looked like a complete stranger.

Faith took a slow step backward. She needed to get away from the suffocating stench of that rose perfume.

"I don't need to follow you," Faith said, her tone devoid of any inflection. "The New York tabloids are much faster than my eyes."

Hartwell let out a harsh, cruel laugh.

"Well, you should know," he sneered. "Isn't that exactly how you forced me to marry you six years ago? Using the media?"

The words were a serrated knife, plunging directly into the last unbroken piece of her heart.

Normally, this was the point where Faith would break. Where her eyes would fill with frantic tears, where she would step forward and beg him to believe she didn't drug him, that she didn't call the press.

But today, her eyes remained bone-dry.

Faith looked at him for a long, heavy moment. Then, very slowly, she nodded her head.

Hartwell frowned. The total absence of her usual desperate pleading unsettled him. A strange, prickling irritation crawled up the back of his neck.

He yanked at his collar again, turning his back on her.

"I'm taking a shower," he muttered, walking away.

His broad back disappeared behind the master bedroom doors. A minute later, the sound of rushing water echoed through the walls. He was washing another woman's scent off his skin.

Faith stood alone by the bar.

Something deep inside her chest-the invisible tether that had kept her tied to this man for six agonizing years-snapped with a final, silent severing.

She turned and walked down the hall to the nursery. She needed to see the one person in this house who had never made her feel like a stranger.

She pushed the door open. Her six-year-old son, Leo, was still fast asleep, his dark hair-so much like his father's-mussed against the pillow.

Faith walked to the edge of the bed. She reached out, her trembling fingers gently tucking the duvet under his chin. A fierce, protective fire ignited in her deadened eyes.

He doesn't deserve you either, she thought. And I will never let him use you as a bargaining chip.

She had no idea what Hartwell planned to do about Leo. But she knew one thing for certain: that man had never once looked at their son with genuine warmth. Leo was an obligation to Hartwell. A reminder of the trap he believed Faith had sprung on him.

Faith turned away from the bed and walked over to Leo's small desk.

With sharp, efficient movements, she began packing his school backpack. Not just for school-but for whatever came next. The storm was coming, and she was going to be ready. And she was taking her son with her.

The fluorescent lights of the underground parking garage hummed overhead.

Faith held Leo's small, warm hand tightly in hers as they walked toward the sleek black Maybach waiting near the private elevator bank.

Arthur already had the rear door pulled open.

Hartwell stood beside the car, his head bowed as his thumbs flew across the screen of his phone. He had changed into a fresh suit, his hair slightly damp from the shower.

Leo spotted him. The boy's eyes lit up. He yanked his hand free from Faith's grip and ran forward, throwing his arms around Hartwell's legs.

"Daddy!"

Hartwell slipped his phone into his breast pocket. The icy rigidity in his posture melted slightly. He reached down, his large hand gently ruffling Leo's dark hair.

Faith stood a few feet away, watching the brief display of paternal warmth. A bitter, acidic ache coated the back of her throat.

They climbed into the cavernous backseat of the Maybach.

Faith slid all the way over, pressing her shoulder hard against the cold glass of the window. She put as much physical distance between herself and Hartwell as the leather bench would allow.

The air inside the car was thick, heavy with an oppressive, suffocating tension.

Leo, sensing the unnatural freeze between his parents, sat perfectly still in the middle, his small hands gripping the straps of his backpack.

The Maybach glided smoothly out of the garage and merged into the chaotic crush of Manhattan morning traffic.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of an elite Upper East Side private prep school.

Faith leaned over the center console. She pressed her lips to Leo's forehead, inhaling the sweet, soapy scent of his skin.

"Be good today, baby," she whispered softly. "Listen to your teachers."

Leo nodded. He slid out of the car, adjusting his backpack. He turned and waved enthusiastically at the tinted windows before jogging through the school gates.

Faith kept her eyes glued to his small figure until he completely disappeared inside the brick building.

Only then did she slowly sit back against the leather seat.

Hartwell reached out and pressed a silver button on the armrest. With a soft, mechanical whir, the soundproof glass partition rose, sealing the rear cabin off from the driver.

The enclosed space instantly felt like a vacuum. The silence was deafening.

Hartwell turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto Faith. There was absolutely zero warmth in them. They were flat, calculating, and ruthless.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice a low, commanding strike.

Faith turned her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes were as calm and stagnant as a dead lake.

"Okay," she said.

Hartwell's brow twitched. The immediate, emotionless agreement clearly caught him off guard. But he didn't hesitate. He reached for the detonator.

He leaned back, adjusting his cuffs, speaking with the exact same tone he used to dismantle rival corporations in a boardroom.

"Eveline is back in New York," Hartwell stated coldly. "We are getting a divorce."

The words hung in the chilled air of the car.

Hartwell watched her face. He braced himself. He waited for the inevitable explosion. He expected her to gasp, to start crying, to throw herself at him and beg him not to do this to their family.

He had an entire arsenal of cruel, logical arguments prepared in his head to crush whatever pathetic excuses she would use to try and save the marriage.

But Faith didn't move.

She didn't shed a single tear. Her breathing didn't hitch. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, perfectly measured rhythm.

She just sat there, staring at him with a terrifying emptiness.

Five agonizing seconds ticked by.

Then, Faith's pale lips parted. She delivered a single, crystal-clear word.

"Okay."

Hartwell's pupils dilated violently. His hands, which had been loosely clasped in his lap, suddenly went rigid.

He stared at her, utterly paralyzed by disbelief.

His brain scrambled to process the data. He assumed he had misheard her. Or worse, that this was some new, manipulative psychological game she was playing.

Hartwell leaned in, his massive shoulders crowding her space. He lowered his voice to a lethal, vibrating growl.

"Do not play games with me, Faith. I don't have the patience for your theatrics."

Faith calmly turned her head away from him. She looked out the window at the blurred trees of Central Park rushing by.

"I'm not joking," she said, her voice flat and bored. "Just have your lawyers prepare the paperwork."

The absolute, dismissive apathy in her tone hit Hartwell like a physical punch to the gut. It was like swinging a sledgehammer and hitting thin air.

A sudden, suffocating tightness gripped his chest. He couldn't breathe right.

He reached up, his fingers aggressively yanking at his tie, loosening the knot he had just tied. He glared at the side of her face, his jaw grinding so hard his teeth ached.

The Maybach slowed to a halt in front of the towering glass-and-steel monolith of the Ware Group headquarters on Wall Street.

The soundproof partition lowered with a hum. "We've arrived, sir," Arthur announced.

Faith didn't even glance in Hartwell's direction.

She reached for the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped out onto the cold pavement.

"I'll wait for your lawyer," she tossed over her shoulder, slamming the heavy car door shut behind her.

Hartwell sat frozen in the backseat, watching through the tinted glass as his wife walked to the corner, raised her hand, and disappeared into the back of a yellow cab.