This time, hesitation had no place. I signed the divorce papers with precision, my signature firm and unwavering. No more doubt. No more waiting. I reclaimed my life.
---
A few days later, Zaldy returned from Paris.
That evening, I set a quiet dinner, the first time in weeks we would sit across from each other. Calm and deliberate, the divorce documents were laid neatly beside my plate.
As he took his seat, I slid the folder across the table.
Zaldy glanced at it, expression unreadable, then pushed it back toward me.
“Put it in my office. I’ll review it later,” he said casually.
I froze. “You’re not even going to read them?” My voice trembled with disbelief.
He sighed, picking up his communicator. “Sami, can we not do this now? I just got back. I’m exhausted.”
“Do you even care?” I pressed, voice shaking. “Have you noticed? I stopped managing your schedules, stopped tending to your needs—and you barely reacted.”
“Look,” he said, waving a hand dismissively, “throwing a fit doesn’t make me drop everything. Now, if you’re done, let me eat in peace.”
I stared at him, every ounce of indifference in his eyes answering all the questions I hadn’t dared to ask aloud.