Royal's arm candy was having another meltdown.

He handed me the divorce papers. "Just sign them, would you? It's just to appease the girl."

Gripping the hem of my vintage dress, I nodded quietly and signed my name.

As I was about to leave, I overheard his buddies teasing, "Your wife is way too compliant. Would she still nod if you told her to get the certificate?"

Royal lit a cigarette with a sly grin. "Want to put money on that?"

They joked that in a month, at the courthouse, I'd be a teary mess but still go along with it, swapping our marriage license for divorce papers.

I looked at my phone, silent. I simply replied to the message I had just received: "Why don't you just marry me?"

"Okay."

==============================

"Really?" came the almost instant reply.

I shut off my phone.

Inside, the laughter and chatter continued.

"Alright then! If the missus is that compliant, drinks are on me next month!" one of his friends said.

"Make it three months," Royal replied.

"Deal, deal, deal!" they laughed and joked.

I stumbled out as quickly as I could.

It wasn't until I stepped outside the office building, into the glaring sunshine, that the tears started to fall.

Royal had set his sights on a young girl, not even out of college yet. He set her up in Miami, lavishing her with luxury goods. But she wouldn't let him touch her.

She lived in a 3,800 square foot penthouse, wrapped in bespoke designer outfits, boldly declaring, "I won't be the other woman!"

Royal found it all incredibly entertaining.

This was the third time he was pulling a stunt for her.

The first time, he bragged about our love. I had no idea Cataleya even existed back then. Happily, I posed for countless pictures with him, thrilled when he posted a collage full of them online. Only later did I realize it was set to "Visible to Cataleya only."

The second time, we argued, and he left me stranded on the street. He took pictures of me crying alone and sent them to her. "See? She just can't leave me."

The third time, he wanted a divorce.

My phone buzzed again. I checked it.

"Really?"

"Are you serious?"

"Amaris Freeman."

I wiped my tears and let out a small smile. "Yes, really."

In the afternoon, Royal took me to the local registry office. He seemed in high spirits during the drive, chatting about our upcoming third anniversary and asking where I’d like to celebrate. Royal and I grew up together, and this marked our third year of marriage.

"How about Venice?" he suggested. "You've been dreaming of feeding pigeons at St Mark’s Square since you were a kid."

He got out of the car, opened the door for me, and helped me unbuckle my seatbelt. "Tsk, have you been crying?" he frowned, gently brushing the corner of my eye with his thumb. "I told you to keep your chin up. She’s just a silly little bird; I’m just waiting to see when she stops soaring so high."

As he said this, a box of condoms accidentally fell out of his pocket. Royal coughed awkwardly, rubbed his nose, and said nothing more, leading us into the registry office.

Everything went smoothly. I struggle with aphasia, which makes speaking to strangers challenging. But I can manage with nods and shakes of my head.

"Is this a voluntary divorce?" the clerk asked.

"Yes," I nodded.

"Are you confirming that your relationship is beyond repair?" they continued.

"Yes," I nodded again.

"There’s a one-month cooling-off period. Please return in a month."

Royal took the receipt. Before we even left the building, he snapped a picture of it and sent a message on his phone. Moments later, I got a similar notification—Cataleya's.

Royal had sent her the photo of the receipt, with a message that read: "Satisfied now? Get ready for tonight!"

I clicked on her profile and blocked her. Immediately after, a text came through confirming a flight ticket purchase, followed by a WhatsApp message:

[The ticket's booked for a month from now.]

[See you in Paris.]