The man leading them carried himself like gravity worked differently around him, dressed in a black suit with an expression that suggested patience was a weapon, not a virtue.
Someone behind me whispered a name, and I recognized it before my mind caught up.
Ethan Vale.
Stories about him moved through the city like storms, and people spoke about him in lowered voices that mixed fear with reluctant admiration.
A clerk bumped into me, sending my divorce papers scattering across the floor, and I dropped to my knees to gather them before anyone could read too much.
Another pair of hands reached the papers before I did, steady and precise, and I felt a strange tension before I even looked up.
“You were trying not to fall apart in public,” the man said calmly, as if he had known me longer than a few seconds.
I looked up and found Ethan Vale kneeling in front of me, his gaze sharp as he glanced at the top page with my name and my husband’s name printed in cold ink.
“You are divorcing Julian Carter,” he said, not asking but confirming.
“Yes,” I answered, my throat tightening despite myself, “as soon as this ends.”