They were divorce papers. I stared at the papers for a second.
My heart twisted, but my face stayed calm.
David leaned back in his chair, looking at me with a cold, empty expression I had never seen during the early years of our marriage. He looked like a stranger. “Sign it,” he said coldly.
“I’m done looking at your boring small-town face.
I’m done pretending you fit into my new life. I’m a CEO now.
I need someone who looks the part.”
His voice had no warmth left in it. No love.
No memory of everything we had lived through together.
Beside him sat his mother, Brenda, wearing a string of pearls that she always touched whenever she felt superior. That night, she kept running her fingers along the pearls again and again, smiling like a snake. “My son is a director now,” she sneered.
