Page 191 of The Marriage Clause

And yet everything about his body looks wrong for the words coming out of his mouth.

His shoulders are too tight. His hand flexes once against the edge of the table. His jaw is set the way it gets when he's holding something back.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"The arrangement is over, Aria." He says it gently, like gentle is going to help here. Like gentle is a thing that exists for what he's doing to me right now. "This is a good thing."

I stare at him.

A good thing.

I almost laugh. It dies somewhere in my throat before it makes a sound, which is probably for the best because I think it would've come out unhinged.

"I don't understand."

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out papers.

Of course there are papers. This man would file paperwork for his own funeral. He'd probably also notarize it.

He sets them on the entry table beside him.

"The estate stays with you," he says. "Brookhaven is taken care of. You're not tied to this anymore."

I look at the papers, then back at him.

"So what," I say softly, because I need to hear him explain the absurdity out loud, "you'll live in the penthouse and I'll live here? How does that make any sense if we're getting divorced?"

"I won't be living here."

That answer comes too quickly.

Too cleanly.

Like he rehearsed it in the car.

"The estate would sit empty otherwise," he says. "If you stay, you have the studio. You have a place for your father when he's ready to leave Brookhaven." His gaze holds mine, and there's something almost desperate in it—like he needs me to understand this part more than any other part. "Use it, Aria. You earned it."

That hurts more than I expect it to.

Not because he's ending it.

Because he's making it sound sensible. Managed. Like he's handing me a severance package with great benefits and expecting a thank-you note.

"You asked me to stay," I say quietly.

His eyes close. Just for a second. But I see it.

"That doesn't change what this started as."

The words hit hard enough that I have to look away.

I stare at the staircase behind him instead. The polished wood. The warm light. Upstairs, the painting I finished two days ago is still drying on the easel—the aisle, the arch, him standing at the end of it in all that light. The one my hand painted without asking my brain's permission.

He doesn't know about that painting.

He's never going to know about that painting.

"You built me a studio," I say.