The room smelled of old wood and lingering cologne, a mixture that made my stomach twist. My hand instinctively clenched, knuckles white against the antique table, as if holding onto it could somehow anchor me in this moment of unbearable reality. Every breath felt fragile, a sharp intake that hurt more than it helped.
He was standing there, his presence a shadow of the man I had once believed in—once trusted with the very pieces of my heart I didn't know how to guard. And now, he asked it, that question which cut deeper than any blade:
"Why are you trying to leave me now?"
Leave him? The sheer audacity of the question made my blood run cold. It wasn't me trying to leave; it was the cruel, undeniable truth I had just learned from the solicitor's precise, indifferent words. It was the reality reflected in his eyes, so cold and unreadable, that no lie could soften it.
I opened my mouth, searching for words that could convey what I felt—words that were sharp, precise, and honest—but the first thing that emerged was only a whisper:
"I see. So it was true."
The words tasted like ash in my mouth, dry and bitter. Silence followed, heavy and suffocating, wrapping around us like a suffocating shroud. I turned my gaze away, struggling against the urge to scream, to break something in the room to make the hurt tangible.
"To me… you're still a scoundrel."
He didn't flinch. His response, calm and cutting, struck me dumb.
"You forced me into a marriage I never agreed to, and now you want to divorce me without my permission?"
I stared at him, incredulous. He actually sounded wronged. He painted himself as the victim in this twisted narrative, speaking of coercion and injustice, yet ignoring the four long years I had endured in a gilded cage of his making.
"It was horrible, being married against my will…" I said finally, voice trembling but gathering strength like a spark igniting a flame. "…But what you're doing to me now is a hundred times worse."
His expression remained unreadable, distant, a frozen mask of composure that mocked my desperation.
And then, all at once, my composure shattered. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring his face, and I felt the weight of four years of deceit, manipulation, and silent suffering crash over me. I looked up, meeting his eyes, letting him see the raw, unfiltered pain I had been forced to hide.
"It's much… much crueler," I said, voice breaking, words laced with bitterness honed over years. "…Which is why it hurts so much more, you selfish jerk."
I needed the truth now. No games, no excuses. "So tell me everything. And be honest with me."
My gaze fell, catching the dark, sharp outline of a memory—an exchange long past, a shadow of something I had sensed but never fully understood.
"…Let me ask you one thing," I demanded, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. Finally, I touched the heart of the mystery that had haunted me all these years. "What was the deal you made with Grandma, four years ago?"
The question hung in the air like a loaded gun, waiting. For the first time, I saw it—a flicker in his eyes. Surprise, subtle and quickly shuttered, but enough to tell me I had struck a nerve.
I knew then that I had hit the mark. The marriage, the divorce, the entire cruel charade—it had all been a transaction, a secret deal I was never meant to uncover. And now, four years later, I was finally demanding to know the price I had paid.
---
"What was the deal you made with Grandma, four years ago?"
My words cut through the thick silence of the drawing-room, heavy and suffocating, echoing off the high ceilings lined with fading gold leaf. For the first time in years, the carefully constructed mask on his face faltered. The blue of his eyes, usually sharp and untouchable, held a flicker—a flash of resignation, as if he had been waiting for this moment but had hoped it would never come.
I watched him like a hawk, heart hammering against my ribs, every instinct screaming at me to brace for the truth I feared. His jaw tightened, the faintest twitch betraying the storm behind his calm exterior.
A terrible thought struck me, a chill crawling down my spine. It was the thought I had been trying to avoid, yet it made a cruel sort of sense.
"Could it be… Is it because of Grandma?"
The words were almost a whisper, a desperate throw into the void. Yet I knew—they were also a key. The marriage. The sudden, inevitable divorce. The meticulous orchestration of my life over the past four years—it couldn't have been a coincidence.
"Was this also part of the deal you made with Grandma?"
He paused. The seconds stretched into eternity. His gaze dropped, avoiding mine, as though looking down would hide the truth, then finally, reluctantly, he lifted his eyes to meet mine again. And the word he spoke shattered everything I thought I knew:
"YES."
My breath caught, lodged somewhere between disbelief and horror. Just one word—so small, yet it carried the weight of four years of misery, of betrayal, of every silent tear I had shed in the night.
"That's right." His voice was flat, stripped of inflection or remorse, delivering the revelation like a verdict. "Her proposal was for me to marry you… on the condition that I later divorce you."
The world spun beneath me. My life, the love I had believed in, the torment of our years together—it had all been preordained, a transaction carefully scripted by someone else.
I could almost see her: the matriarch, imperious on her velvet throne, her eyes cold and unyielding, hand resting lightly on the arm of the chair as if to emphasize her power. Her words echoed in my mind, precise and cruel:
"Divorce her. That's my one and only condition."
He continued, finally exposing the full, monstrous scope of the arrangement.
"In exchange, she would lend me the power of your family. That was our deal."
Power. Influence. My love, my life, my family's legacy—it had all been currency, bartered and spent without my knowledge. My marriage, my dreams, my trust—it had been nothing but a tool in their hands. The divorce, not an act of betrayal in the usual sense, but the planned expiration of a cruelly calculated use.
A cold emptiness spread through my chest, hollowing me from the inside. The pain of the divorce, the social whispers, the legal documents—all of it paled in comparison to the monstrous realization that my marriage had been nothing but a lie with an expiration date. He hadn't been just a scoundrel for leaving me; he had been the willing participant in a transaction that commodified my life, my family, and my love.
I turned away, the once-beautiful, haunted drawing-room now suffocating, walls pressing in, the ornate chandelier above like the eyes of judgment. I knew the truth now, and it hurt far more than any deception ever could.
His final words echoed in the room like a verdict:
"In exchange, she would lend me the power of your family. That was our deal."
The shock of the present began to dissolve, replaced by a cold, vivid memory that played out behind my eyes—a scene I had never witnessed in reality, yet now unfolded with startling clarity, explaining everything I had endured.
It was four years ago, in the sprawling, gilded living room of my family's estate. Sunlight glinted off the polished marble floors, catching the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. My grandmother, a formidable figure whose presence alone could silence a room, sat regally in her high-backed chair. Her fingers curled around a silver chalice, knuckles white from a grip that was equal parts ritual and authority. Across from her stood the man who would later become my temporary husband, his posture formal, his face a mask of ambition and calculation.
"Condition?" His voice was measured, respectful yet probing. "When you came to see me last time, you said all you needed from me was to marry your granddaughter and return your family to its former glory."
Even in memory, my grandmother's eyes held that deep, piercing wisdom, a clarity that could cut through pretense.
"Of course," she said slowly, "it's true that I'm making a suggestion that's more of a plea, given that I have more to lose…" Her voice softened, but there was still steel in her tone. "But this is still a deal, Eiser."
She lifted the chalice and took a slow, deliberate sip. "I cherish and love my family, but my granddaughter matters to me more than anything. And I only wish to safeguard this family for her sake, as the sole surviving member of my bloodline."
He nodded, listening intently, weighing her words. "I see… Although you will entrust your granddaughter to me, you want to protect her from me as well," he observed, noting the paradox, his eyes sharp and calculating.
"Yes," she affirmed, her voice firm. "I am also entrusting you with my time and money. I trust you—but that cannot take precedence over my granddaughter's well-being." Her expression softened just slightly, revealing the maternal anxiety she had long hidden behind her authority.
"So that divorce is the last safety measure I can have in place to protect her," she continued, her eyes locking with his. "Especially if there is no guarantee that I will be alive for that long. Do you understand me?"
It was a test of his integrity, though she didn't say the words outright.
His internal response, the thought I was now privy to, was cynical and pragmatic: She is probably worried about Serena falling into danger if she dies. Promises are all too easily broken when time and money are involved.
And then, with calculated poise, he delivered his agreement. "YES, I DO," he said, the words precise, polite, and cold.
He went on, rationalizing her demands, outlining the logistics of my protection. In her view, the safest option would be to impose a time limit on the marriage. If he ever changed his mind—or if some outside force intervened after her death—I, having no control over the situation, would be safely removed from danger.
It was not a punishment for him; it was a lifeboat for me. My grandmother, knowing her time was limited, had forced me into a temporary marriage to secure my inheritance, my position, and ultimately, my safety. The divorce was not cruelty—it was her final, desperate act of love.
But I had never known. For four years, I had believed myself an unwanted accessory, a pawn in a game of influence and power. In truth, I had been a package, with a carefully written contract attached, designed to protect me, even if that protection came at the cost of four years of emotional suffering.
The vision faded, and I was thrust back into the suffocating present. My chest felt hollow, my heart bruised—but clearer than it had been in years. I stared at the man who had, unknowingly or not, delivered me from one danger only to bind me for four years in a prison of profound emotional pain.
My mind remained locked in the memory of that fateful meeting, each detail etched with chilling clarity. It was not merely a negotiation—it was a fortress constructed around me, brick by brick, clause by clause. This was no ordinary marriage; it was survival disguised as matrimony.
After securing his basic agreement, my grandmother—Iansa—did not relent. Her eyes, sharp as polished steel, scanned him for hesitation. Seeing none, she began enumerating the non-negotiable clauses of the prenuptial and divorce agreements, each one a meticulously designed safeguard.
"You must divorce her by the agreed-upon date," she said, her tone absolute, "and you will have no rights to the Serenity family's assets afterward. I will set this process up in advance, so regardless of what you may or may not want. As soon as this wedding takes place, divorce will also become mandatory."
Her words were a scalpel, stripping him of leverage, ambition, or desire for permanence. The marriage was a temporary shield, a legally binding cage—but never a claim to our wealth.
"And once you are divorced," she continued, eyes cold and unyielding, "you will not be able to marry Serena again for at least two years."
I could almost hear his inner calculation—the cynical thought running through Eiser's mind: I suppose that's to prevent her from forcing Serena to remarry me immediately after the divorce. Yet he gave no outward resistance, offering only a placid, clipped reply:
"As you wish."
Every chain she placed on him, he accepted. The need for our family's influence outweighed his personal freedom or desire.
She moved on, outlining the financial surveillance measures. "While you are in charge of overseeing the Serenity family," she said, her voice measured but unflinching, "you are free to do as you please with our money. But know this—audits will take place constantly. I cannot tell you who will conduct them or when, but they will not interfere with your work, so there is no need to attend to them."
She was trusting him with immense responsibility, yet monitoring him like a hawk in the shadows.
"However," she added, her gaze piercing him like a dagger, "if an audit reveals any suspicious activity, the divorce proceedings will begin immediately. The same applies if Serena is severely injured or dies within this time frame. Is that understood?"
It was a death sentence for the agreement if he ever harmed me or misused his authority. In effect, she had positioned herself as a phantom bodyguard, a hidden sentinel over my life.
His response was immediate and detached, as though all of this were trivial. "Implement whatever measures would make you feel most comfortable. It doesn't matter to me."
He did not care about the restrictions, only the eventual outcome, the power he sought from the arrangement.
Iansa's expression softened, and a small, wry smile curved her lips as she lifted her chalice, toasting silently to her own brilliance. "There will be a few other terms you must agree to," she said lightly, her voice carrying a note of mock self-awareness. "I will send those through my solicitor." A soft chuckle escaped her. "Quite a particular old woman I'm turning out to be, aren't I?"
Yes, she was particular—a genius in her ruthless dedication to safeguarding the one thing she loved most. She had used the only tool at her disposal: a mandatory, temporary marriage, executed with precision and foresight.
The memory snapped shut. The room around me seemed heavier, the silence deafening. A flood of emotions swept over me: grief for the grandmother I had misunderstood, respect for the ruthless brilliance that had protected me, and a bitter, hollow ache aimed at the man standing before me.
He was the executor of this preordained separation, bound by the very contract that had been drafted to protect me from him, yet he had also been the willing participant.
The full picture of the deal was now revealed.
The ghostly image of my grandmother's calculating kindness finally lifted, replaced by the crushing weight of the present. I was standing before Eiser, the man who had been the executor of this cruel, necessary contract, and the truth pressed down on me like a leaden fog. Every breath felt labored, every heartbeat a hammer driving the realization deeper into my chest.
"Both this marriage and divorce were already planned?" I whispered, my voice barely audible, trembling under the sheer enormity of the revelation. The thought had never occurred to me before—Grandma, in her foresight, had made divorce an explicit part of her strategy, entwined with the marriage itself.
In my mind's eye, the memory resurfaced: her figure upright and regal, listening carefully as Eiser had voiced his concerns, probing the boundaries of her plan.
"This is a matter that necessitates the utmost caution, even if you're in a hurry," he had said, measured and controlled. "It seems to me that you care about your granddaughter a lot."
Her response, even in memory, had been quietly resolute. "Thank you for saying that. Well, there's no need to consider these conditions a hassle. These tricky clauses are simply measures being put in place in case of my death. They won't mean anything if I'm still alive then. For example…"
She had turned, her silhouette bathed in the solemn light of the window, her white hair haloed like a crown of quiet authority.
"…if feelings were to develop between you two over the years, I would happily reassess the situation."
I had seen it then, though only now did the truth of her generosity fully hit me. She had left a loophole—a chance to make the temporary permanent, a possibility that love could bloom within the strict confines of her design.
And yet, here we were, four years later, standing across from each other, the certificate of divorce waiting between us like an unyielding wall.
My chest ached, burning with a mixture of betrayal, grief, and an almost physical sense of loss. I lifted my eyes to him, tears stinging, and found a courage that trembled but refused to break.
"Why did you keep it a secret from me? From the start of our marriage to this certificate of divorce… why couldn't you have told me everything from the start? Then I wouldn't have felt so anxious, so powerless."
My hands clenched the fabric of my dress, trembling, as four years of suppressed fear, confusion, and longing poured out in a rush of desperate questioning.
"I don't understand. Why only me? Why am I the only one who…?"
I faltered, voice breaking. My mind reeled. Everyone else had known. Eiser knew. Grandma knew. The solicitors knew. Everyone but me. Why had I been left in the dark, forced to endure this emotional limbo alone?
Eiser's voice finally came, low and measured, meeting my gaze with a weariness I had never seen before.
"It was Iansa who asked me to keep the terms of our deal a secret from you."
The words hit like ice. The blame shifted, but the pain remained, raw and uncompromising. My loving, protective grandmother had deliberately left me to suffer the emotional confusion and heartache of a sham marriage.
I recalled her final, hopeful sentiment from the memory, the gentle lilt in her voice, her eyes glimmering with quiet courage.
"I hope this marriage will save my family… my granddaughter… and you as well."
She had hoped—for us. She had planned for the possibility of love, of genuine connection within the confines of her meticulous contract. And yet, Eiser had followed her instructions to the letter, honoring her request for secrecy, while leaving me to bear the emotional cost alone.
"I truly hope that," she had whispered. Her words faded into the corridors of memory, fragile and fleeting.
And now, in the suffocating present, the crucial revelation crystallized: my grandmother had insisted on the secrecy. It was her will, her strategy—but it had come at the expense of my peace, my trust, and the last four years of my life.
Eiser's words—"It was Iansa who asked me to keep the terms of our deal a secret from you"—hit me like a cold wave, sending a fresh surge of confusion and ache through every fiber of my being. My chest tightened, my stomach twisted, and a low, helpless tremor threatened to unravel me entirely.
"This involves me too," I challenged, my voice ragged, trembling from the years of pent-up anguish. "Why am I always the only one who's left in the dark?"
He met my gaze, those piercing blue eyes holding a quiet, unyielding weariness, and for a moment I thought I saw him struggle. I imagined him asking himself a question without words: Was he right? Was it better that I hadn't known?
A sudden, piercing wave of regret crashed over me, a chilling vision of how drastically different the last four years could have been if I had known the truth from the start.
If I had known that our marriage had an expiration date…
…I wouldn't have been consumed by the suffocating anxiety that felt like a slow poison, leaving me trembling at every interaction, questioning every word, every glance, every intention. I would not have been so overwhelmed, so completely convinced that I was on the verge of collapse at any moment.
The memory came unbidden: me, pale and frail, consumed by panic, believing I was trapped in a gilded cage with no key, my mind fraying as each day stretched endlessly before me.
…and my relationship with Grandma would not have been as strained, as brittle.
I remembered the resentment I had harbored, the sharp edges of anger I had leveled at her for forcing me into what I had perceived as a cruel, meaningless union. I had hated her for placing me in this position, for the chaos and anxiety that had become the warp and weft of my life.
And yet, with hindsight, I could see her brilliance, her calculation, the cold love that had motivated every decision. I understood now, recalling Eiser's internal rationalizations, that her fear had been of danger and broken promises: She is probably worried about Serena falling into danger in the event of her death. Promises are all too easily broken when time and money are involved.
I saw it all as if for the first time: the method behind her seemingly harsh choices, the terrifying clarity with which she had built every contingency. She had feared that if I had known the marriage was temporary, I might never have taken it seriously—that I might have refused to use the protection Eiser offered, squandered the chance to secure my own future.
I remembered Eiser's interpretation of her strategy, cold and logical: So in Iansa's view, the best option would be to set a time limit for this marriage. If I were to change my mind or some sort of external pressure is applied after she dies, Serena, having no power over the situation, would immediately be disposed of…
And yet, despite the protective genius behind the plan, I had paid a terrible cost for her foresight. My youth had been stolen by worry, my innocence tainted by anxiety, my trust fractured by secrecy.
I looked at Eiser, still standing there, composed, resolute, the living embodiment of the secret he had been bound to uphold.
Had you known all of this from the beginning… would you have become the person you are today?
I thought of the frightened, immature girl I had been four years ago: cautious, weak, desperate to avoid responsibility. But I realized something bitterly ironic. Even if I had known everything, even if I had been fully informed, I would likely have remained distant, cold, wary of Eiser—the man connected to the Grayan family, the family of rivals I had learned to fear and mistrust.
I knew the history. I knew the stakes. And so, in the old me, I would have withdrawn further from him, learning and managing on my own, counting the days until the divorce like a prisoner waiting for release. I would have lived cautiously, comfortably perhaps, but constrained and shallow.
A heavy sigh escaped me, ragged and involuntary. That person—the person I could have been—might have been safer, yes, but at what cost? The pain of the last four years, the furious, desperate struggle for autonomy, the belief that I was fighting for my own freedom—it had forged a strength in me, sharpened my mind and resilience.
But was it worth the agony?
My eyes, hot with unshed tears, pleaded silently with Eiser for an answer that he could not, would not give.
L
I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump lodged in my throat. The weight of my grandmother's sacrifice pressed on me like stone, yet the present demanded confrontation. Pain from the past had to be set aside—I needed answers about the future, and I needed them now.
"Grandma said there was a condition," I said, voice steadier than I felt, cutting through the suffocating silence of the opulent, gilded room. "She told you that if feelings were to develop between us over the years, she would happily reassess the situation."
The memory returned unbidden: my grandmother, regal and resolute, a faint glimmer of hope in her eyes, granting the smallest, most delicate chance for a genuine connection to grow. Her careful foresight had offered a loophole—a possibility for love, if it could bloom within the constraints of her meticulously designed plan.
I turned my gaze fully to Eiser, searching the perfect, cold symmetry of his features, trying to read the truth beneath the stoic mask.
"But you never told me that," I accused, my hand flying up to wipe at the tears that still streaked my cheeks. "You respected the part of the contract that mandated the divorce, but you completely ignored the condition that could have changed everything."
The words broke free with a force I had restrained for four long years. My voice rose, charged with the weight of frustration and betrayal. "We had four years, Eiser! Four years where you treated me like an inconvenience, a required fixture in your grand design. And now you want to hand me this certificate and dismiss me as if the entire marriage was nothing but a transaction!"
I couldn't hold back the truth any longer. "It was horrible, being married against my will…" My lip trembled, my chest heaving as I admitted it aloud. "But what you're doing to me now is a hundred times worse. It's much, much crueler… which is why it hurts so much more, you selfish jerk."
The irony of it stung sharply. My initial fear had been that he would try to keep me—trap me in a marriage I resented. But the opposite was true. His eagerness to let me go, to comply so strictly with the divorce, was the real betrayal.
"Why are you trying to leave me now?" I demanded, my voice breaking at the edges, exposing the raw, jagged hurt that had festered inside me for years. I knew the answer would be legally sound, precise, but emotionally bankrupt—a calculated execution of a contract rather than any consideration of my heart.
I stepped closer, letting the heat of my anger and grief push me forward, forcing him to meet the full fury in my eyes. "Let me ask you one thing."
The words trembled as they left me, the weight of everything I had endured packed into that single question.
"Did you really hold to the contract so strictly because of Grandma's command," I demanded, "or was it because… to you, I'm still a scoundrel?"
I wanted to believe it was the former, that his coldness had been a deliberate protective measure to ensure my freedom. But my heart ached at the dreadful possibility—that he had simply felt nothing for me at all.
I had laid my soul bare, directly challenging him, questioning not just his compliance with the contract, but the depth of his feelings—or lack thereof—for me.
Looking back now, I realize that what truly shaped me wasn't the comfort of reassurance, the warmth of understanding, or the gentle hand of cooperation. No—it was something harsher, more unforgiving.
It was the sense of impending crisis that honed me like a blade, the sharp pang of fear and helplessness, the suffocating weight of misery pressing against my chest. Anxiousness, worry, the kind that gnaws at you in the quiet hours of the night… that was the fire that forged me.
That's why I created the guise of Sera—the careful, calculated persona I wore to survive, to navigate the treacherous waters I had been thrust into. And even though I loathed every moment of it, I clung to Eiser like glue, absorbing everything he could teach me, learning his methods, his strategies, his logic. Every lesson was a weapon, a shield, a step toward reclaiming my own life.
The pressure weighed on me constantly, a relentless reminder that if I failed to protect what was mine, it would be snatched away. It was this fear, this urgent need to secure my freedom and my inheritance, that forced me to buckle down, to work tirelessly at the hotel, to master the skills and knowledge I would need to stand on my own.
I knew that once I was qualified, once I had proven myself competent and capable, I could pursue the divorce with my head held high. And I needed it desperately—this was my goal, my lifeline, the promise of autonomy I clung to like air.
Yes… had I known that the divorce was inevitable, that the temporary nature of the marriage was a fait accompli even without my efforts… I might never have pushed myself so hard. I might have languished, idle and resentful, wasting those four years in bitterness rather than turning the adversity into strength.
What she did—my grandmother—might have seemed cruel to me back then, a deliberate act of severity that I had interpreted as coldness or indifference. But looking back with the clarity of hindsight, it was unmistakably her. Always seeing right through me, always knowing exactly how I would react, exactly how much I could endure, and exactly how far she could push me to ensure I became stronger.
So yes… she knew. She knew full well how much I would resent her. Yet…
That obstinate woman. The thought bubbled up bitterly in my mind, sharp as a knife. As always, she makes me feel like nothing but a foolish, immature brat. I clenched my fists, forcing the resentment down. It doesn't matter either way.
Eiser's voice cut through my thoughts like a blade, full of restrained frustration, of that familiar insistence that I should bend to his desires.
"We can just talk Grandma out of it," he said, tone pleading but edged with incredulity. "Isn't the answer simple? Can't we just ask her to remove the clause that makes our divorce mandatory? Can't we just tell her that we've changed our minds, that we don't want to get divorced anymore?"
I could see the longing in his posture, the way his hands twitched almost imperceptibly at his sides, as though reaching for a solution that might keep me tethered to him. The pause that followed was heavy, dense with the weight of his wishful thinking, as if the room itself held its breath.
Then, cutting through the quiet, a voice firm and unwavering spoke directly to me.
"Serena."
I froze, my chest tightening, my mind spinning. The tone was calm, measured, but there was steel beneath it—a resolve that allowed no room for negotiation.
"I am going ahead with this divorce of my own volition," I said, each word deliberate, sharp, as though I were engraving it into the air between us. "Regardless of the terms of my deal with Iansa, I want this divorce."
Eiser blinked, startled, as though my declaration had pierced the world he had imagined around us.
"What?" His voice cracked, a mixture of disbelief and suppressed frustration.
I met his gaze, unflinching, my eyes steady despite the tremor of emotion that ran through me. His expression flickered for a moment, the practiced mask of control wavering, and I felt a fleeting sense of triumph—but it was bittersweet.
"The divorce papers have been drawn up and will soon be submitted to the court," he said, his words flat, cold, almost mechanical, yet carrying the weight of finality.
My eyes drifted to the table, where the blurred title of the document lay, stark and unforgiving: Certificate of Divorce. Husband: Eiser Leinz Grayan. Wife: Serena Serenity.
I swallowed, feeling the familiar sting of tears threaten the edges of my vision, but I refused to give them space. This was the culmination of years of struggle, of fear, of growth forged under the pressure of my grandmother's careful, calculated cruelty.
I had learned the lesson she had intended—not the one of helplessness, but of self-reliance, of determination. And now, standing here, I was ready to claim the freedom I had fought so hard to earn.
He repeated it, each word precise and unyielding, settling over the room like a sheet of ice.
"The divorce papers have been drawn up and will soon be submitted to the court. After the mandatory arbitration period, sometime next month at the latest… you and I will be divorced."
My chest tightened, my breath catching in my throat. I could barely form the words, the disbelief clawing at my mind.
"I… I don't understand. What do you mean, you want this?" My voice was thin, trembling, as if the very air around me refused to carry such a truth.
He met my gaze, steady and unreadable, and confirmed, simply:
"Exactly that."
Shock coursed through me. My hand shot out, fingers grazing the edge of the table, resting near the cursed document. Panic flared, brief but searing, as if touching that paper might somehow reverse the inevitable.
"And you don't have anything to say to me besides that? You want… to leave me?" The words barely formed, heavy with a mixture of anger, hurt, and disbelief.
I felt the room tilt, the weight of the moment pressing down on my shoulders. The shock slowly gave way to a strange, almost numbing finality. I let out a long, quiet sigh, the sound carrying all the resignation, the heartbreak, and the resolve that had built inside me over years of struggle.
BUMP.
I brushed past him, my bare feet cold against the marble floor, each step deliberate, grounding me in the reality I was claiming for myself.
STRIDE. STRIDE.
I moved forward, refusing to look back, leaving him rooted where he stood, a silent witness to my departure, to the life I was reclaiming.
SLAM.
The door closed behind me, the sound sharp and echoing, a punctuation mark to the ending of everything between us. The echo lingered, heavy and resolute, carrying the weight of his decision, the reality of my liberation, and the undeniable finality of this chapter in our lives.
Absolutely! Here's a fully expanded version of your passage, maintaining Eiser's introspective, first-person perspective and his reflection on his guilt and strategy, strictly up to your indicated ending point:
🪞 The Scoundrel's Reflection
(I sigh.)
I knew, deep down from the beginning, that you and I would part one day. That inevitability haunted me, whispered in every quiet moment, in every glance I stole at you when I thought you weren't looking. But even so, I didn't see this exact moment coming—this finality, this deliberate severing of what had been between us.
Yes. I am a scoundrel.
Once you opened your heart to me, I knew with brutal certainty that I would inevitably hurt you. And yet… despite knowing all of that, I kissed you, I held you in my arms, I made love to you. Every touch, every embrace, every shared moment carried the weight of foreknowledge—the knowledge that it would end, that you would leave, that my actions were destined to wound you.
And what's worse…
As the day of our parting drew near, impatience grew in me like a storm brewing beneath the calm surface. The inevitability of our separation made me reckless, audacious in a way I might never forgive myself for.
…and once your vacation began, I left the divorce papers lying out, placed deliberately where you would see them. I told myself it was the only way to let you discover the truth without having to voice it, without having to break your heart directly with my own mouth.
Because I couldn't bear to tell you myself. I couldn't bear to watch the shock, the confusion, the hurt flare across your face if I were the one to deliver the news. I told myself, coldly, that if you found the papers first, if you demanded answers after seeing them… I would be able to come clean to you, though in truth, the delay was as much for me as it was for you.
I placed the documents on the desk with precision, fully aware that doing so would hurt you. That knowing glance at the paper, the stark words printed on it… it would break your heart, and I could only hope, vaguely, that it wouldn't shatter you completely.
And now, watching you leave the room without yelling, without demanding answers, without lashing out… you are even more composed than I anticipated. Perhaps even more shocked. Perhaps more wounded than I imagined possible.
I cannot tell if that steadiness is strength… or despair.
(Eiser's thoughts continued, quietly observing her retreat.)
Given the way you left the room rather than erupting in anger or demanding answers… you must be even more shocked than I anticipated. Perhaps your mind is already spinning with a familiar, bitter thought—that everyone you have ever loved or cared about… will eventually leave you, one way or another.
Your composure, so controlled yet fragile, both terrifies and fascinates me. I wonder if you hate me already, or if the shock has left you paralyzed, unable to process the depth of what I've done.
(Meanwhile, the protagonist's perspective took over, grounded in immediate sensation and raw emotion.)
I hurried away from the room, the cold marble biting at the soles of my bare feet. Each step felt surreal, my mind clouded with disbelief, my chest tight with the pressure of grief I could no longer suppress. Tears began to well up, threatening to spill, but I forced my legs to carry me forward, urgent and unrelenting.
STAGGER.
A sharp pang shot through my knees. My legs wavered under the weight of my emotions, and for a moment, it felt like the ground itself wanted to swallow me whole. A deep ache radiated from my chest, dragging me closer to collapse with every labored breath.
STUMBLE.
AH… I nearly fell entirely, the world tilting dangerously as though mocking my helplessness. My hands clawed at the wall for support, the marble unforgiving beneath my trembling fingers.
And then… finally, the fight left me.
SLUMP.
I sank against the cold wall, shoulders slumping, head bowed. The relief that came with surrendering to my grief was both cruel and comforting. I no longer had the strength to mask the storm raging inside me.
DRIP. DRIP.
The first tears escaped, hot and relentless, hitting the marble floor. Each drop was a testament to the pain I had held back for so long, proof that the fortress I had built around my heart had finally cracked. The sound echoed faintly, mingling with the silence of the hallway, a private, raw symphony of loss and anguish.
Absolutely! Here's a fully expanded version of your passage, keeping the first-person perspective, the protagonist's raw emotional state, and faithfully concluding the chapter, strictly up to the ending passage you provided:
🌑 Utterly Alone
I stumbled—AH…—and finally, the shock I had been holding at bay gave way to the cruel, unyielding weight of reality. My legs collapsed beneath me, and I dropped completely to the cold, unforgiving floor.
SLUMP.
The world seemed to tilt and shrink, leaving me utterly alone once more. The hallway stretched endlessly, silent except for the sound of my own ragged breaths and the occasional drip of tears falling to the marble. Every step, every effort to hold myself together, had dissolved in an instant.
SOB. SOB. SOB.
The grief overwhelmed me, a raw, consuming torrent that shook my body from the inside out. It was more than sadness—it was the profound confirmation of the terrifying thought that had haunted me for so long: everyone I had ever cared about, everyone who had mattered, would always leave. And I could do nothing to stop it.
I curled into myself, arms wrapped around my knees, head bowed, letting the flood of emotion wash over me. The world outside the hallway felt distant, unreal, as though I existed in a private, inescapable nightmare of loss.
📘 Chapter 89 End
Story & Art: Ina
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