The café was nearly empty at nine in the morning.
Nora Walsh sat alone at a corner table, a cup of coffee growing cold beside her. In front of her were two documents. Both required her signature. Both would change her life.
The first was twelve pages long. Ivory paper. Elegant letterhead. CROSS LEGAL ASSOCIATES printed at the top in crisp black ink.
Divorce papers.
She hadn't cried when they arrived by courier. She hadn't called anyone. She had simply put on her coat, walked to the café three blocks from her apartment — their apartment, she corrected herself, for exactly one more hour — and sat down to read them.
Damien Cross, her husband of two years, had not called. Had not texted. Had not shown up in person. He had sent a lawyer.
She supposed she should have expected that. After all, she had barely existed to him.
At their wedding, he had smiled at the cameras. At their dinners — the rare ones — he had checked his phone. At corporate events, he had introduced her as "my wife" in the same flat tone he used to say "my driver" or "my housekeeper." She had spent two years being invisible inside her own marriage.
Nora uncapped her pen.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it.
It was Marcus, her lawyer — her other lawyer, the one who handled the part of her life Damien knew nothing about.
"They accepted," the message read. "Full terms. They want you in as acting CEO by Monday. Congratulations, Nora. NovaTech is officially theirs — and you're officially running it."
She stared at the message for a long moment.
NovaTech. The AI startup she had built from nothing over five years, first in her bedroom, then in a rented office, then in three cities. The company she had kept completely separate from her marriage, under her maiden name, behind a wall of NDAs and shell corporations.
The company that Damien Cross's own board had been trying desperately to acquire for the past eight months.
They had no idea the founder was his wife.
Nora looked at the divorce papers. Then at her phone. Then back at the divorce papers.
She picked up the pen.
She signed the divorce papers first — clean, steady strokes, no hesitation.
Then she replied to Marcus: "Tell them I'll be there Monday. And send me the acquisition contract. I'll sign that too."
She capped her pen, picked up her coffee, and finally took a sip.
It was cold. She drank it anyway.
Let the games begin.