Dante’s company was located right in the city center.
I put on an ivory trench coat, slipped into my stiletto heels, and walked into the tall building.
The security guard at the entrance bowed politely, as if nothing had changed.
I smiled back, though only I knew I was no longer the woman who cleaned up his messes and covered his betrayals.
The receptionist stood up the moment she saw me. “Mrs. Giselle, Mr. Dante is in the conference room.”
“Mrs.?” I repeated softly, smiling faintly. “From now on, call me Miss Giselle.”
She froze, speechless.
I walked toward the conference room and pushed open the heavy glass door.
The men inside immediately rose to greet me except him.
Dante looked up, a faint frown forming between his brows. “What are you doing here?”
He still carried that calm, detached expression, the same one he wore even when I had given up the world for him.
I approached the table and placed the folder gently before him.
“This is the anniversary gift I prepared for you.”
His eyes flicked over the papers, and in that instant, his posture stiffened.
The words Divorce Agreement cut through his composure like a blade.
“Giselle,” he said quietly, anger creeping into his voice for the first time, “do you even know what you’re doing?”
“I know very well.”
I looked straight at him, my tone calm. “I’m doing what you didn’t have the courage to do six years ago letting go.”
Lyra’s perfume drifted into the room, sweet and suffocatingly ironic.
She walked in holding a folder, perfectly composed.
When her eyes fell on the document on the table, her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
I turned around and walked away without a pause.
Behind me, Dante’s voice grew low and urgent. “Giselle, don’t go!”
I didn’t look back.
The wind slipped through the open door, lifting a strand of my hair.
I said softly, “This time, it’s my turn to leave you.”
I thought he would sign the papers immediately.
But when I left them on his desk and walked out, he didn’t say a word.
The next morning, sunlight filtered into the bedroom.
The other side of the bed was empty; as always, he had risen early, impeccably dressed, as though nothing had happened.
Breakfast was still neatly arranged on the table, and beside it lay his handwritten note:
Don’t forget the reunion tonight.
I stared at the words and couldn’t help but laugh.
His handwriting was elegant and steady now it looked like pure mockery.
He had read the divorce papers, yet chose to pretend they didn’t exist.
To him, my calmness was nothing more than another fleeting mood swing.
He thought I would forgive him again, just like all the times before.
I didn’t tear up the note. I folded it carefully and slipped it into my bag.
It would be my last ritual in watching love collapse.
That evening, the reunion was held in a private suite atop the Champs-Élysées Hotel.
I hadn’t planned to go, but I thought once I left this time, I might never return.
Seeing everyone again would be my farewell.
Dante insisted on accompanying me.
I refused, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, continuing his flawless performance as the “attentive husband.”
The moment we entered, laughter filled the room.
“I told you, if Giselle comes, Dante won’t be far behind!”
“He’s afraid she might get lost!”
The room burst into teasing laughter.
Dante smiled with his usual grace, pulled out a chair for me, and began distributing the gifts he had prepared for everyone.
