Chapter Fourteen
Signed and Severed
Jace
The drive feels like it should be routine. Same roads. Same turns. The same early traffic that acts like nothing in the world is changing.
But it isn’t. Not when I’m on my way to a law office to sign the last piece of paper that officially ends my marriage.
And maybe that’s why my mind won’t stay where it should.
I should be thinking about that. About her.
Instead, my head’s still at The Brew House.
I keep seeing it in pieces, like my brain saved the worst parts on purpose.
Sarah at a two-top by the window.
That guy Brian across from her, leaning in like he belonged there. Easy smile. Calm hands. Like he didn’t have to fight for a second of her attention.
And Sarah. Trying to do the right thing. I could tell. She had that careful look in her eyes like she’d promised herself she’d show up, even if it cost her.
Then I walked in.
I went in for coffee, and the second I saw her, my body reacted like it forgot how to be normal.
Ethan muttered ‘don’t’ under his breath, like I was a dog he’d seen snap before.
He wasn’t wrong, especially after last night.
I saw Brian’s hand near hers and something hot and stupid hit the back of my throat. Not anger, exactly. More like the kind of possessive jealousy I have no right to.
Not while I’m still married.
Not while she’s trying to move forward.
I keep replaying the moment our fingers brushed when we both reached for her keys.
It was a simple touch.
And my whole body locked up like it was a memory instead of a moment.
Like I was back in that hallway again, standing outside a door I didn’t want to open, knowing if I moved the wrong way I’d ruin everything.
I grip the steering wheel harder at a red light and force air into my lungs.
‘Get through today.’
Because I’m not allowed to want her while my life is still tied to someone else.
And that’s about to change.
The pen feels heavier than it should, like my hand knows what this signature means even if my brain keeps trying to treat it like paperwork.
It’s nothing special. Cheap plastic. Black ink.
The kind you forget about the second you put it down.
But when I wrap my fingers around it, there’s a weight to the moment that sinks into my wrist, my forearm, then my chest. Spreading slow and deliberate like my body is bracing for impact.
This is it.
The room is quiet in a way that feels intentional.
Not sterile or cold. Just neutral. Beige walls.
A narrow window letting in midmorning light.
A desk that’s seen a thousand endings like this one and doesn’t care about any of them.
The woman sitting across from me looks calm, professional, polite.
She slides the papers closer, taps the signature line once with her finger, then folds her hands like she knows better than to rush this.
There’s an empty chair across the desk, angled slightly wrong, and my eyes keep drifting to it like muscle memory.
I can almost see her there, arms crossed, mouth set in that tight line she gets when she’s holding something back, eyes tired in the way that became familiar long before either of us admitted we were done.
I glance at the chair again. It’s stupid. Looking for her is habit, maybe. Or guilt refusing to let me pretend this is anything but easy.
“Take your time,” the clerk says gently.
I nod once, though time is the one thing I’m done pretending I need more of.
I read the line again even though I already know what it says. I’ve read it a dozen times. I’ve lived it longer than that.
My name. Her name. Legal language that tries to make something emotional sound clean and final. Dissolution. Agreement. Mutual consent.
I sign.
The clerk slides the next page forward. “Initial here as well.”
I do, my initials smaller than my signature, like shrinking it will make it less real.
She flips another page. “And here.”
I initial again.
Another page. Another line.
I hate how efficient it is. How the end of a marriage fits into a rhythm.
The clerk keeps her tone calm, but she glances up at me once, like she’s checking whether I’m about to crack. “You okay?”
I almost give her the polite answer. Almost.
Instead I breathe out and let the truth be simple. “I will be.”
She nods like she understands that’s the best anyone can offer in a room like this. “That’s usually the right answer.”
The pen moves smoothly across the page, my signature practiced, controlled, nothing like the mess I feel underneath it. When I finish, I don’t feel relief. There’s no rush. No sudden lightness. Just a quiet, grounding sense of truth settling into place.
This is done.
I slide the papers back across the desk.
The clerk gathers them, checks each page, and flips the stack once like she’s making sure nothing can come loose. “You’re all set. We’ll file these today. You’ll receive confirmation in about a week.”
I nod, because my throat feels too tight for anything else.
She pauses with the papers in her hands, like she’s deciding how human she’s allowed to be in a room like this. “Do you need a copy for your records, or are you set?”
“A copy please,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
She slides one page out, stamps it, then sets it in front of me with a small, practiced movement, like she’s done this a thousand times and still knows it matters. “This is just confirmation that it was signed today. The rest will come once it’s processed. It should take about a week.”
I pick it up and stare at the date like it might change if I look long enough. Midmorning. A random weekday. The kind of day that looks identical to every other day on paper.
“Any questions?” she asks, still polite, still neutral.
I almost laugh at that. Questions are all I have. I just don’t think this is the place for them.
“No,” I say. “I’m good.”
Her expression softens again, something sympathetic flickering across her face before she schools it back into professional calm. “Okay. Take care.”
The sound of the door closing feels louder than it should, echoing once before the quiet settles back in. No voices. No movement. Just the faint hum of the building’s HVAC and the soft tick of a wall clock I hadn’t noticed before.
I don’t move right away.
My hands stay where they are, flat against the smooth surface of the desk, fingers spread like I need the contact to remind myself I’m here.
That this actually happened. The wood is cool under my palms, grounding in a way I didn’t expect.
I focus on the pressure, the temperature, the way my shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath.
This is the part no one warns you about.
Not the signing or the logistics. But the quiet afterward, when there’s nothing left to decide and nowhere to direct the energy you’ve been holding in for months.
I glance at the papers again even though they’re already stacked and pushed aside, their presence lingering like an afterimage. Black ink. My handwriting. Final in a way that doesn’t ask how I feel about it.
My chest tightens, not painfully, but with a strange sense of awareness. Like a muscle finally unclenching after being held tense for too long. I roll my shoulders back slightly, noticing how stiff they are, how much I’ve been carrying without realizing it.
I breathe again. Slower this time.
There’s no urge to rewind. No spike of panic. No sudden doubt clawing at the edges. Just a quiet acknowledgment settling in, heavy but honest.
This is over.
Not erased or forgotten. But finished.
I stay seated for a moment longer, palms flat on the desk, breathing in and out slowly. The clarity surprises me. Not because it’s new, but because it’s steady.
“I didn’t leave Sierra for Sarah,” I whisper to no one. It matters that I finally say that out loud, even if no one else is here to hear it. That lie has been convenient for me. Because it simplifies something that was never simple. It turns this into a story about temptation instead of fear.
I didn’t leave Sierra for anyone.
I stayed because walking away felt like admitting failure. Because leaving someone who was already hurting made me feel like the villain in a story I never meant to write. I stayed because guilt is quieter than honesty, and for a long time, I mistook that quiet for peace.
Our marriage wasn’t built on betrayal or secrets.
It was built on pressure, grief, expectation, and the shared belief that doing the responsible thing would eventually feel right.
I told myself love could grow out of obligation.
I told myself stability mattered more than truth.
That wanting something else didn’t mean I was allowed to reach for it.
I was wrong.
I stand, shrug into my jacket, and step out into the hallway. The building smells faintly like paper and cleaning solution. Ordinary. Unremarkable. The kind of place where life-changing decisions happen quietly, without witnesses.
Heels click on tile down the hallway. Steady. Familiar.
Sierra rounds the corner with a folder tucked under her arm, her hair pulled back, her face set in that quiet, controlled way she slips into when she doesn’t want anything to show.
Her eyes flick up and land on me.
For a second, neither of us moves.
It’s weird how much history can fit into two seconds. Wedding photos. Holiday dinners. Late-night arguments that ended with us turning away from each other instead of talking.
She exhales first when she sees me, like she didn’t expect the hallway to be occupied. “Hey.”
My throat tightens. “Hey.”
She slows, folder tucked under her arm, heels clicking once more before she stops a few feet away. “You’re… early.”
“Just finished.” I gesture back toward the office door. “You heading in?”
“Mm-hm.” Her voice stays steady, but her eyes look tired. “I figured it’d be easier this way.”
“It is.” I pause, because it doesn’t feel like the truth, but it’s the closest one. “For you, at least.”
Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile. Not quite anything. “You don’t have to do that.”