Chapter 8 - THE DIVORCE HE SIGNED
Three weeks later, Lucian sat across from Serena in Marcus Chen’s office.
Between them lay the divorce settlement.
He had signed every page.
No argument.
No threats.
No custody battle.
Serena stared at his signature.
“You agreed to everything.”
“Yes.”
“Primary residence with me.”
“Yes.”
“Equal decision-making.”
“Yes.”
“Independent security.”
“Yes.”
“And my shares remain mine.”
“They always should have.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
Lucian’s expression was tired.
“Because you asked to be free.”
The answer hurt.
She had expected a fight because Lucian fought for everything.
“You’re just letting me go?”
His eyes lifted.
“No.”
The quietness of his answer changed the room.
“I am respecting your right to leave. Those are different things.”
Marcus discreetly left.
Lucian remained seated.
“I love you.”
Serena looked away.
“I know that sentence used to work.”
“I’m not asking it to work.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because you asked for truth.”
He removed something from his pocket.
Her wedding ring.
He placed it on the table.
“I carried this for twenty-three days.”
Serena stared at it.
“I kept thinking if I could explain Palermo, explain Bianca, explain the company, explain my father, somehow all those explanations would equal an excuse.”
He shook his head.
“They don’t.”
Serena’s eyes burned.
“I abandoned you when you were frightened. I treated your intelligence like something useful when it benefited me and inconvenient when it challenged me. I called surveillance protection. I made decisions about your life without you.”
His voice roughened.
“And I missed the first breath my son ever took.”
Serena looked down.
“I can never fix that.”
“No.”
“I know.”
For once, he did not promise impossibilities.
Lucian stood.
“If you sign, I’ll move permanently to the townhouse near the park. It’s twelve minutes from you. I’ll follow whatever schedule we agree for Leo.”
“And us?”
He looked at her for a long time.
“There is no us unless you choose one.”
Then he left.
Serena did not sign that day.
She hated herself slightly for it.
Weeks passed.
Lucian became strangely ordinary.
He attended pediatric appointments.
He learned which bottles Leo preferred.
He arrived on time.
He left when asked.
He stopped sending guards Serena had not approved.
He sold the Palermo villa.
When Serena asked why, he said, “Bad memories.”
When she laughed, he smiled.
The legitimate Moretti businesses changed too.
Lucian offered Serena a formal co-chair position.
She refused.
Then created her own consulting company and made Moretti Atlantic its first client at full market rate.
Lucian signed the contract without negotiation.
“You’re expensive,” he said.
“I’m excellent.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him suspiciously.
“No argument?”
“I’ve discovered they’re not always necessary.”
“Are you ill?”
“Possibly.”
Their relationship rebuilt itself in tiny moments.
Not kisses.
Not declarations.
Trust.
Then one night Leo developed a fever.
102.4.
Serena panicked.
Lucian arrived before the pediatrician returned her call.
They spent six hours in the emergency department.
It was viral.
Nothing serious.
At 3:40 a.m., Leo finally slept.
Serena sat beside Lucian in the waiting room.
Their shoulders touched.
Neither moved away.
“You came,” she whispered.
Lucian looked confused.
“You called.”
“That used to not be enough.”
He understood.
His face softened.
“It is now.”
Serena began crying.
Lucian did not touch her immediately.
He waited.
That mattered.
Then Serena leaned into him.
His arm came around her carefully.
“I hated you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I still might sometimes.”
“Reasonable.”
She laughed through tears.
“I wanted you to suffer.”
“I did.”
“That shouldn’t make me feel better.”
“But?”
“A little.”
Lucian smiled.
Then Serena looked at him.
Really looked.
“You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“I’m not forgetting it.”
“I would never ask you to.”
“And if we ever try again, it isn’t the old marriage.”
“No.”
“Nothing from the old marriage.”
Lucian considered.
“Can we keep Leo?”
She laughed so loudly a nurse looked over.
It was the first moment Serena realized happiness might not require returning to who they had been.
It could mean becoming people they had never been before.
Then Lucian’s phone rang.
Bianca.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Serena sat upright.
Lucian listened.
Then looked at her.
“Vittorio made a deal.”
“With prosecutors?”
“Yes.”
“What did he give them?”
Lucian’s face was unreadable.
“Everything.”
The following morning, federal agents unsealed records proving that dozens of crimes attributed to Lucian over fifteen years had been ordered by Vittorio through accounts and identities designed to implicate his nephew if necessary.
But one document was different.
It was a contract.
Signed years earlier.
A contract authorizing Serena’s death if she ever attempted to reclaim her father’s shares.
The signature beneath it belonged to Vittorio.
The date was Serena and Lucian’s wedding day.
And beside Vittorio’s signature was another.
May you like
Isabella Moretti.
Lucian’s mother.
