In the tense silence, Sienna immediately stepped forward, taking Brett's arm with feigned concern. "What's wrong?"
The gesture was practiced, fluid, as if such intimacy was already second nature.
Brett didn't even glance at the divorce papers, let alone the section detailing the massive division of assets. He simply flipped to the last page and signed his name without hesitation.
After signing, he turned to Sienna, his voice softening. "You handled this exceptionally. That project was revived because of you. I'll make sure you get the reward you deserve."
A triumphant smirk touched Sienna's lips before she cast an "inadvertent" glance at the tattoo on the inside of Brett's wrist.
It was an exquisite design, with our initials, J and B, intertwined around a tiny baby cradle—a symbol of the family we had once dreamed of.
"Brett," Sienna said, her tone a mask of professional tact, "I couldn't help but notice your tattoo. In some business settings, it might seem a bit too… 'family-oriented.' It could make clients question your commitment."
She paused, a sly glint in her eyes. "Maybe you should consider changing it to something more corporate? Like the company logo?"
My heart plummeted. That tattoo held the last beautiful memory of our marriage.
But Brett just nodded. "That's a good point. A professional image is key."
He turned to me, his tone laced with impatience. "Juliana, you understand, right? It's just for the company."
My blood ran cold. But then I thought, we're getting a divorce. Why should I even care?
"Of course," I forced a brittle smile. "Since you're changing it, why not incorporate 'SS' for Sienna Shaw? That would be even more meaningful."
The sarcasm soared right over his head; Brett actually seemed to think it was a good idea.
As I began packing my design drafts and personal effects, Brett followed me into my study, clearly assuming I was just throwing a tantrum.
He pulled a black card from his wallet and held it out. "Juliana, I know you're upset. This has no limit. Buy whatever you want. Let's not ruin our relationship over something so trivial."
Just then, Sienna knocked on the door. She held a thick project proposal, her face a mask of earnest professionalism.
"Sorry to interrupt," she said, "but I need to discuss an urgent business matter with you both."
She placed the proposal on my desk, pointing to one of the pages. "To ensure the success of the project I just salvaged, we need to build a high-end private tennis court to entertain our clients' families."
Her finger traced a line across the estate's floor plan, landing precisely on the memorial garden in my backyard.
"According to our assessment, this is the ideal location. The position is perfect, and the space is currently underutilized."
Sienna looked up at me, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Juliana, I understand this is emotional for you. But for a multi-hundred-million-dollar project, a tennis court is a vital amenity. That space... it's just sitting there, empty."
