"Sign here," Wyatt said, voice low as his hand slid around my waist and his mouth found the bare skin at my throat. "I signed it last night at midnight," I said, keeping my tone casual while my fingers toyed with the paper on the island. "You left me a copy." He laughed without warmth. "You can change your mind." "I already did," I said. I tapped the line with my pen. "Net-zero." Wyatt froze against me. His fingers tightened for a second, then he let go and straightened. He put the kettle on the stove like the morning was still ordinary. "That's theater," he said. "You can take the house, my stake in TechCore, your mother's trust." "Net-zero," I repeated. I set the pen down and smiled. "I want my name back." He stared at me. "You want to throw away more than the assets. Name, custody, reputation. You can't —" "I can," I said. "And I will." He reached for the paper again as if he could pull my decision back into his hands. I slid the signed document across the marble until it hit the fruit bowl. Wyatt's assistant would collect it in an hour, have it notarized, deliver it to legal. He thought control lived in ink and ledger lines. I thought control lived in choices. "So you'll sign away child support?" He kept his voice flat. "You'll sign away any claim to the estate?" "I'll sign away