The contrast hit her immediately.
To her left, a young couple in matching sweaters held hands and giggled, clutching a paper number for the marriage license line. The woman's ring was small, practical, nothing like the stone Faith had abandoned on her vanity. The man kept touching her hair, tucking it behind her ear, as if he couldn't believe his luck.
Faith walked past them toward the separate entrance Julian had described. The divorce filing office. The end of things.
Branson caught up to her on the steps. He moved differently now, she noticed-less certainty in his stride, as if the ground itself had become unstable. His hand went to his pocket, emerged with his phone, checked it, returned it. A gesture she'd seen him perform a thousand times in meetings, now stripped of its power.
Julian waited inside the lobby, briefcase in hand, a folder of prepared documents ready for submission. He'd arranged for a private judge, expedited processing, all the privileges that money could buy even in the dissolution of marriage.
"Mrs. Jarvis. Mr. Jarvis." He nodded to each of them with perfect neutrality. "This way, please."
The private chamber was small, wood-paneled, dominated by a raised desk where a white-haired woman in judicial robes reviewed their paperwork. Judge Harriet Warren had handled celebrity divorces, political scandals, the dissolution of fortunes that made the Jarvis holdings look modest. She read through Faith's waiver of property rights with eyebrows raised, pen making occasional notes in the margin.
"Ms. McKenzie." The judge looked up, glasses catching light, using Faith's maiden name with pointed precision. "You understand that by signing these documents, you relinquish all claims to marital assets, including real property, investment accounts, trust distributions, and future support? This is irrevocable. Even if you later discover assets your husband concealed, you will have no legal recourse."
"I understand."
"And you execute this waiver freely, without coercion or duress?"
Faith felt Branson's eyes on her, hot and urgent, willing her to hesitate. To reconsider. To prove this had all been performance, a bid for attention she'd never intended to complete.
"I do."
Judge Warren turned to Branson. "Mr. Jarvis, do you confirm that you enter this agreement freely, and that you have made full disclosure of all marital assets to your satisfaction?"
Branson's throat moved. "I do."
"Very well." The judge lifted a wooden gavel, small and worn with use. "By the authority vested in me by the State of New York, I hereby declare the marriage between Branson Anthony Jarvis and Faith Margaret McKenzie dissolved. You are each restored to single status, effective immediately."
The gavel fell.
The sound was less dramatic than Faith had expected-a soft thud, final but not violent. She waited for something to happen. For grief to arrive, or regret, or the panic Branson had predicted.
Instead, she felt light. Unmoored, certainly. Terrifyingly free. But light.
Judge Warren was speaking about certificates, about filing timelines, about the legal formalities that remained. Julian stepped forward to handle details, his voice low and professional.
Faith took her copy of the decree. The paper was thin, official, stamped with a seal that meant nothing and everything. She folded it carefully and slipped it into her bag.
When she looked up, Branson was watching her. His face was gray, she saw. The color of men who'd received terminal diagnoses or margin calls that destroyed fortunes.
She smiled at him. She couldn't help it. The expression felt strange on her face, unpracticed, stretching muscles that had learned permanent neutrality.
"Don't," he said. The word was barely audible.
"Don't what?"
"Don't look like that. Like you're-" He stopped. Swallowed. "Like you're happy."
"I am happy, Branson." She said it simply, as fact. "I'm sorry that hurts you. But I am."
She turned and walked toward the door. Behind her, she heard Julian's voice, something about collecting remaining documents, and Branson's rough response cutting him off.
Outside, the winter sun had broken through clouds. Faith stood on the steps and breathed-deeply, fully, feeling cold air fill lungs that had operated on shallow sips for years.
Branson emerged behind her. She heard his footsteps stop, felt his presence like a shadow she was finally learning to step out of.
"The car-" he started.
"I'll take the service vehicle." She didn't turn. "Holly arranged for one of the security team to drive me back to the apartment. To collect my things."
"Faith-"
"Goodbye, Branson."
She walked down the steps, toward the black SUV waiting at the curb, toward the empty apartment and the empty future and the terrifying, exhilarating project of discovering who she'd been before they made her into someone else.
