8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Lawyers, Longing + the "FUCK HIM" Bouquet
Aspen
Present Day.
The conference room is too quiet.
Too sterile. And it feels like grief has wiped down every surface and told us to keep our voices low.
I sit still, spine straight and hands folded in my lap, while our lawyers exchange hushed words.
Across the room, Chelsea Raymond, the producer-slash-handler from SightUnseen, stands at the head of the table.
She carries herself as if this were just another scheduled wrap-up meeting, a routine box to be checked instead of this being the exact moment my marriage ends.
I barely process the legal jargon being rattled off—bits and pieces about mutual consent, NDA terms, and final footage edits. They explain that once the paperwork hits the judge’s desk, the tie is severed. We will no longer be married.
No longer a couple.
No longer anything.
But my body still remembers what my heart is desperately trying to forget.
My mind slips back to that night in Vegas.
Where it felt like everything belonged to us.
I remember the way he held me, as if I were something breakable and holy.
The way he undressed me with his hands and his eyes, intent on capturing every inch of me before the ghost of the moment could vanish.
The way he kissed me. The way we used to make love.
His Ms. Mysterious.
He said it like I was his secret weapon. His favorite discovery. His personal plot twist in a story he hadn’t seen coming.
That night, he promised me he’d never met a woman like me.
Said he’d never let me go.
And I believed him.
Every single word.
Because when he touched me, it didn’t feel like a lie. Or even our one night pact.
It felt like forever.
I stare down at the polished table in front of me, wishing I could scrub away the feeling rising in my chest. The ache. The question.
How the hell did we get here?
It was one night. But it was everything.And now it's being erased in less than an hour with coffee, bullet points, and barely-dry signatures.
Chelsea looks between us, her practiced producer’s smile softening into something almost human. “I just have to ask one more time. Are you both absolutely sure this is what you want?” she asks gently.
I glance at Luca.
He doesn’t look at me. He doesn't blink or even seem to breathe. He just stares straight ahead, his jaw tight and his voice clipped.
“Yes,” he says.
That single word slices me open.
“Luca,” I say. I hear it before I can stop myself and I hate it. The way it sounds like I’m begging him to end this madness. To drop the stubborn act and remember the night we made those promises.
Promises that felt as permanent as the ink on these papers.
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t flinch.
God.
How can he let this go? After everything we shared. After everything it felt like it could have been.
How could he not fight?
I look at Chelsea. Then at the lawyers.
My voice is clear, even though I feel like I’m falling apart inside. “I just want to go on record,” I speak up. “And say no. I’m not sure I want to do this. In fact, I don’t want this.”
I turn to him. “Luca.”
Nothing.
I have always hated the taste of a plea.
There is a hollow, aching humiliation in wanting someone more than they want you, and I am not that woman.
I refuse to linger in rooms where the air has gone cold, and the door stands halfway closed.
I was raised to know my worth, to leave before I am asked, to exit while my pride is still intact.
But I have never known a gravity like this. Whatever we were, it defied every rule I lived by.
It kills me that he is walking away as if it were nothing. As if we didn't light the world on fire. As if the heat we generated didn't leave us both branded. I am standing right here, still burning, still wanting him.
And he is already gone.
I look down at my phone and see a message from Tatum.
Tatum: I’m outside. Visitor’s lot. I’ve got a bat, just in case you want to bust this fucker’s windows out.
I bite back a snicker, shaking my head.
Me: Tatum, stop it. There will be no vandalism on my behalf. It’s all pretty amicable.
It’s not amicable. It’s not even civil.
It’s torture in open-toe heels.
I glance up and realize everyone at the table is staring at me—my lawyer, his, Chelsea…and Luca.
There’s a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth from Tatum’s text, but before I can wipe it away—
“Glad you’re able to find some joy in all of this,” Luca says flatly.
And the smile dies.
“Luca, I—”
He lifts a hand. Not gently. Not kindly. Just dismissive.
Pompous ass face.
He’s got the posture of a man who’s above it all. Cold like some stiff, British bastard who’s decided I’m nothing more than a regret with entirely too much paperwork.
Amicable indeed.
As the mediation wraps, I turn to Luca one last time.
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
He hasn't—not really—since the day he decided this was all too much. The pressure of it all. Me, him, Croix. He couldn’t bring himself to choose, so he chose neither of us instead.
He hasn’t looked at me the same since. It's like something deep inside him simply shut off the moment we finally found our way back to each other.
His nurse moves to help him from his chair, but he jerks his arm away, “I’ve got it, Nancy,” he snaps, reaching for his crutches.
Still stubborn as hell.
I’d heard the whispers—from the press, from mutual friends, even from Tatum—that Luca became “difficult” the moment we lost touch in Vegas.
Nearly costing him his career. Apparently, he spent months trying to track me down, and the romantic in me swooned at the thought.
Yet, he was still the one who made the final call to end our marriage.
But I still love him, so I keep tabs on him.
Which is how I found out he started to spiral the second the decision was made to end our marriage.
His mood soured, his behavior turned erratic, and I’m told he’s completely shut down emotionally.
He’s even refusing to cooperate with anyone regarding his injury.
I can’t, for the life of me, figure it out.
If ending this is breaking him apart, then why is he doing it at all?
I watch as he limps toward the door, the pain in his leg obvious even through the sharp, angry way he moves. His MCL is still healing, but he refuses to let anyone help. He won't allow himself to look weak.
I open my mouth to tell him he’s using the crutches wrong, that he’s putting too much pressure on the injured side, but I stop myself.
He’s not mine to protect anymore.
So I let him walk away.
Crutches under his arms. Pride on his back.
Straight into the waiting car out front like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
When I step out into the parking lot, Tatum is waiting by her car, her arms overflowing with emotional first aid.
Not a bat, thank God.
Instead, she’s clutching a massive bouquet of black roses and a string of black balloons that spell out FUCK HIM in shiny, inflated letters. I don’t just walk toward her, I nearly break into a run.
I collapse into her arms and let the tears finally break free, right there in the middle of the visitor lot. Her timing is hilarious, her choice of decor is textbook Tatum, and for a split second, the absurdity of it all almost makes me forget what we’ve just done.
But none of it numbs the truth.
It still hurts.
God, my heart.
It hurts.