“We’re done.” She folded the papers so the signature showed more intent than pain. The divorce packet snapped like a small, final seal. Dominic stared at the curve of her hand where the ink was still damp. The foyer of the Harbor City Registry felt too loud—people talking, heels tapping, a child whining five feet away—but his voice came out small. “Riley…” Riley didn’t meet his eyes. She watched a man in a navy suit walk past, then looked up at the clerk, who cleared her throat and pushed a rubber stamp across the counter like an understudy passing a cue. “Everything in order, Ms. Quinn?” the clerk asked, eyes flicking to Dominic. “It is,” Riley said. Her voice kept steady by the sheer force of refusing anything else. She slid the signed papers back across the counter. The clerk stamped them. The stamp thudded. Legal. Finished. Dominic closed his hands, as if closing off a wound. He took a step forward and then stopped, like a dog that expects to be called and isn’t. “Hey. I—” He swallowed. “I’m sorry. For—everything. For how I—” “For how you’ve been,” she finished for him. No accusations. No list. Just the truth summed in the hollow of his apology. It would have rung different if he’d said it yesterday, or five years ago. But timing, she’d learned, matters more than intent. He reached out, a slow, uncertain hand. “Can we… be friends