Page 40 of Mending Hearts
The man turns as I approach. “Oliver Marshall?”
“Yes,” I say, voice flat.
“I’m here to serve you,” he says, professional, emotionless. He holds out the envelope. “These are legal documents. You’ve been served.”
My hand comes up automatically, fingers closing around the envelope like it’s going to burn me. “What is this?” I manage, though I already know.
“It should be explained inside,” he replies. “Have a good evening.”
Then he turns and walks out like he hasn’t just tossed a grenade into my life.
Henry’s gaze flicks to my face. “Mr. Marshall?—”
“I’m fine,” I lie, because Henry doesn’t deserve to see me unravel.
He nods once, but his eyes stay kind. “If you need anything….”
“Thanks,” I say quietly, then back toward the elevator with my head buzzing.
I can feel the weight of the envelope in my hand like it’s pulling my arm down.
By the time the elevator doors slide shut, my palms are damp. I stare at the manila paper. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s?—
I don’t know. Some idiot suing me because I didn’t sign something. Some marketing bullshit. A legal threat about a photo. An old endorsement contract.
It could be anything. Except my gut knows. It knows because I’ve spent eight years waiting for the day he’d finally decide he was done too.
I step into my loft like I’m walking onto thin ice. The silence hits me immediately—too big, too hollow. I set the envelope on my kitchen counter and stare at it for a long moment, chest rising and falling too quickly.
My hands shake as I slice it open with a knife, the blade too sharp, the motion too precise. Like if I do it neatly, the contents won’t hurt as much.
The paper slides out.
Official letterhead.
Legal language.
My eyes skim, then snag.
Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
Divorce.
The words swim on the page like they’re trying to escape my gaze. My stomach drops so violently I have to grip the counter.
No.
No, no, no.
A cold sweat breaks across my skin. My vision narrows at the edges, and for one terrifying second, I think I’m going to black out right here in my own kitchen. It feels like being hit again, all at once. Like the past eight years were just the wind-up and this is the punch.
I swallow hard, but it doesn’t help. My mouth is dry. My throat is closed.
My mind is a mess of noise.
Fuck.
Fuck.
