"Sign here," Karter said. He flicked the bedside lamp and the bridal suite fell into a clinical rectangle of light. He placed a thin folder on the duvet, the divorce papers fanned like a hand of cards. "You're serious," I said. "I always am," he replied. His voice had the flat edge it wore in boardrooms and negotiations. "You read. You sign. You leave. Quietly." I stared at the first line. My name underlined, then his. The signature line waited like a verdict. "Why are you doing this?" I asked. Karter smiled without warmth. "Because the Persson name is worth more intact than it is tangled with scandal." "You mean my mother," I said. "You mean the studio. You mean everything I built." "Everything you built depends on one thing—no spectacle," he said. "There are cameras outside. There are whispers. I can either make the story disappear or burn it until even your best clients stop calling." I swallowed. "Accusations—who started them?" "You still don't know," he said. "You were perfect at not noticing until people decided otherwise." I pressed my fingertips to the paper. My hand kept shaking. Karter slid a second page toward me. The clause was thin and brutal. "If you sign, Persson Holdings will handle the hospital bills incurred by your mother for the next decade," he read. "You surrender the right to speak about any Persson. You leave Mariner House. You will not contact any Persson-affiliated company." "That's generous