The Divorce He Never Saw Coming

Today marked the end.

The attorney didn't raise his eyes when I entered.

"I need to file for divorce," I stated, setting the documents on his desk.

He finally looked at me—messy hair, worn jeans, backpack still hanging from my shoulder. His face grew serious. "Miss, divorce isn't a decision to make lightly."

I knew why he doubted me. I appeared more like a lost student than someone who'd been married for four years.

But I came ready.

"Just process the paperwork," I said evenly. "I'll obtain my husband's signature."

The Moretti mansion felt unnaturally silent when I arrived. The security guards didn't react to my presence—just another unnoticed element in James' universe.

I went directly to James' study. The door stood slightly ajar, and I could hear voices inside.

Then the scent hit me.

Truffles.

James always insisted he detested strong odors in the house. No garlic, no seafood, nothing that remained in the air. Yet now, the atmosphere was rich with the aroma of premium white truffles, the variety only accessible to those with the proper connections.

I opened the door.

There he sat. James Moretti, my husband, looking more at ease than I'd ever seen him with me. Beside him was Isabella Rossi, his childhood companion, returned to the city this year following her divorce.

She was offering him a slice of bread layered with truffles, her fingers staying just a moment too long.

Then James noticed me. His smile vanished.

"Sophia," he said, tone distant. "I didn't anticipate your return this early."

Isabella turned, her perfectly painted lips forming a smile. "Oh, Sophia! We were just having a light meal. There's only sufficient for two, but I'm certain we could—"

"I'm not hungry." I interrupted, moving closer.

I pushed the document across the gleaming mahogany desk, the paper's rustle echoing in the quiet room. James paused with his whiskey glass halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrowed slightly. "What is this?"

"The university requires a signed safety waiver," I opened it to the signature section.

"For my research initiative," I swallowed. "Since you're my sole family now."

The reality weighed between us. My parents had passed years ago, lost in a questionable car crash that initially drew me into James' sphere. He understood better than anyone how isolated I was.

James frowned, "Let me examine that—" My tension suddenly intensified. He never requested to review documents. Typically he'd simply sign any academic forms I presented without questioning.

Why today? Why now?

"Oh James," Isabella chuckled, resting her hand on his arm. "You're being too cautious! It's merely a form. Recall how many documents we completed for last month's charity event?"

As the successor to Rossi Enterprises, one of the Moretti family's key business allies, Isabella had seamlessly integrated into James' world since her return. They were constantly together now, at social events, auctions, and those exclusive private gatherings where agreements were formed. Wherever James appeared these days, Isabella seemed to materialize beside him, her luxury gowns coordinating with his custom suits as if they were designed as a pair.

He paused, then seized his fountain pen and signed with a swift motion, identical to how he endorsed contracts and other official documents.

I retrieved the papers before he could notice the prominent "DIVORCE PETITION" heading on the initial page.

Isabella smiled faintly, "Truthfully, James, you treat her more like a younger sister than a spouse."

James didn't contradict her. Simply drank some whiskey.

I turned and departed before they could observe my trembling hands.

The door shut behind me.

I was liberated.

Moving through the marble corridors of the Moretti estate, I gripped the signed divorce documents. The ink was still fresh, but the marriage had concluded long before today.

I recalled how different James used to be. The way his warm hands would follow my spine when he believed I slept. The commanding manner he'd draw me into secluded spaces during family events, his mouth burning against mine.

Now he scarcely looked my way.

My parents died when I was sixteen. Alexander Moretti, the leading figure of the Moretti mafia family at that time, accepted me as a gesture to my father—his previous driver who had taken a bullet for him. That's how I came to live in the same residence as James Moretti.

James embodied everything I should avoid. Distant. Hazardous. Merciless. By twenty-five, he'd already assumed control of half his father's enterprises. The media labeled him a "promising businessman." The streets understood better.

I maintained distance initially. Made myself unnoticeable. Until that evening four years ago, when James returned home stained with another person's blood.

He discovered me in the kitchen treating my own knife injury, a present from one of his father's associates who considered the boss's ward vulnerable prey.