The door to the master suite didn’t just open; it was breached. Mark Vane walked in, draped in a freshly pressed charcoal suit that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. He smelled of clean linen, expensive sandalwood cologne, and a sharp, metallic impatience. He didn’t look at the monitor. He didn’t ask if I had managed to sleep for more than twenty consecutive minutes. He looked at me as if I were a stain on the silk duvet—a blemish he was finally deciding whether to scrub away or simply replace.

He dropped a leather folder onto the bed. The sound was crisp, final, and courtroom-sharp.

“Divorce papers, Anna,” he said. He pronounced my name as if it were a foreign word he was tired of translating.

He didn’t look me in the eye. Instead, he scanned my body—the nursing pajamas, the messy hair, the swelling that hadn’t yet receded. His judgment had nothing to do with the shared history of our marriage. He wasn’t leaving a partner; he was upgrading an accessory.

“Mírate,” he whispered, a vestigial remnant of his upbringing that he used only when he wanted to twist the knife. Look at yourself. “You’ve become a scarecrow, Anna. A CEO needs a wife who radiates power, not maternal degradation. You’ve ruined the image we spent years building.”