Divorce Me Once, Your Loss

Brianna

I hear the slam of papers on the mahogany desk in front of me before my vision zeroes in on the document.

“Sign it!”

I blink back the sudden tears that sting my eyes. “What are those?”

“Divorce papers,” Nico grunts like he prefers to be anywhere but here, “sign the papers.”

Nico has been my husband for one year. One year and two days if I am being precise, and I can count the number of times I’ve seen him in the past one year on one hand and that’s including the press conferences we had to attend.

“Why are you hesitating, Bri? It’s one year already.”

He is right. The contract was meant to last for one year alone, the contract that meant he had me as a wife instead of the woman he initially wanted – my sister, Arianna. It’s no news to me that my husband hates me as much as one does his archenemy because he believes I took away the opportunity for him to be with Arianna, when he did that himself. It’s no news to me that I can never be her in his eyes, but don’t blame me if I didn’t want to sign the papers that will mean I am back to being plain old Briana Page again.

Don’t blame me if I wanted more out of my miserable life.

My palms are sweaty all of a sudden so I dry it out on my loose fitting dress. “It’s just so . . . final.”

Nico’s eyes follow the movement of my hands, disapproval stretching itself on his gorgeous face.

“Final?” he smirks and rummages his drawers for a pen. “Come the fuck on,” he snaps, “we were barely even married. We saw each other like what – twice?”

“Still—” being married to Nico Armani came with it some kind of respect and status I’ve never had while growing up. The kind my sister always had and I always craved. And it didn’t matter that we stayed in two different houses or that he hated my guts because I reminded him too much of the girl he could never have, or that his family maltreated me whenever we met, but no matter how non-existent my married life seemed and how cold and nonchalant my husband is, being married to him was the only thing that had any semblance of stability in my life.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? Sign the papers.”

My breath is fogging up the lens of my huge glasses and I wipe it off before I say, “I need to . . . think about this be –”

“There is nothing to think about. The contract is over, your father drew it up himself. The debt is paid and I don’t have to pretend I like being married to you any longer than I like stubbing my own foot. Sign the papers so we can get on with our lives--”

The door to his office