"Sign these," Archer says as the bedroom light snaps on. He stands in the doorway, tie undone, suit jacket hanging from one shoulder. He tosses a thick stack of papers onto the duvet. The papers land beside the lace train of the dress Emmie never had a chance to wear properly. "Archer, don't," Emmie says. Her voice is small. Her hand moves toward the papers and stops. "Don't what?" He steps inside, closes the door, and the city sounds cut off like someone shutting a book. "Don't make it awkward?" "Please," she whispers. "We can talk. We can—" "You think a sob story buys a title?" He drops the words like a folded blade. "You think clinging to a name gives you leverage?" Emmie blinks. The room spins a second. She rests her palm against the headboard to steady herself. "We were married," she says. "We promised—" "Promises are paperwork," he says. "Sign. Leave. No press. No scandal." "Archer." Her fingers find one of the pages. "I—" He grabs her wrist. The grip is not violent, only certain. "You owe the hospital ten years of bills," he says. "You think I don't know what your charity did? You think Marcus will cover mistakes you make for sympathy?" "What hospital?" Emmie asks, every syllable a tremor. "You know which one," Archer says. He watches her as if he's cataloging damage. "You know the project your NGO pushed. The supply chain dried, the patient relapsed. Costs mounted