William walked in. He was impeccable in a charcoal three-piece suit, the chaos of the previous night erased by a razor and expensive grooming products. A maid immediately placed a black coffee and the Wall Street Journal in front of him.
He sat. He snapped the paper open. He disappeared behind it.
"Ba-ba!" Leo squealed, banging a plastic spoon against his high chair.
William's brow furrowed above the paper. He didn't look up, but the tension in his shoulders screamed irritation.
Mia signaled the relief nanny from the agency, who had just arrived to take over for the sick Mrs. Higgins. "Please take them to the playroom."
The nanny whisked the children away. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the scrape of William's knife against his toast.
"About the charity gala next week," Mia started. Her voice felt rusty.
"You don't need to go," William said. He turned a page. The paper rustled loudly.
Mia paused, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth. "It's the Sterling Family Foundation. As your wife-"
"As my wife, your job is to raise the heirs you were so desperate to provide." His tone was bored. Clinical.
"Is Lucinda going?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
William lowered the paper. His eyes were cold, hard flint. "That is irrelevant."
"She's going," Mia stated. "And you don't want me there ruining the picture."
"She is a trustee," William said, his voice dropping an octave. "You are a liability. You don't know how to handle the board, Mia. You freeze up. It's embarrassing."
"I freeze up because you let them humiliate me," she shot back.
William folded the paper neatly and set it down. He clasped his hands, leaning forward. "Let's not rewrite history. You signed a contract. You secured a trust fund. You got exactly what you wanted. Stop pretending you care about my social calendar."
"I have never touched a cent of that money," Mia said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage.
"A strategic move to maintain the 'innocent girl' facade," William countered smoothly. He checked his Rolex. "I won't be home for dinner."
He stood up, buttoning his jacket.
"William, we need to talk," Mia said. She stood up, too.
He didn't stop walking toward the foyer. "I'm busy."
"Busier than your marriage?"
He spun around at the door, his expression incredulous. "Marriage? This is a merger, Mia. A merger you forced by getting pregnant to manipulate my grandfather's will."
"I didn't plan it!"
"Save it," he said, opening the heavy oak door. "I'm tired of the act."
The door slammed shut. The vibration rattled the crystal vase on the console table.
Mia sank back into her chair. She felt hollowed out. Scraped empty.
Her eyes drifted to the painting on the far wall. Behind it was a wall safe.
She stood up. Her legs felt heavy, but she forced them to move. She walked to the study, moved the painting, and punched in the code. Arthur had given it to her months ago, instructing her to keep her passport there 'just in case,' a warning she had foolishly ignored until now.
Inside lay a single blue folder.
She pulled it out. Her fingers traced the edge of the document. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
She had printed it weeks ago. She had hesitated. She had hoped.
But the man who just walked out that door wasn't a husband. He was a landlord of her misery.
She carried the folder to the coffee table in the living room and set it down. It looked innocuous. Just paper. But it was a bomb, and she was finally ready to light the fuse.
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