"Sign this," Brielle snapped, slamming the divorce agreement onto the dining table.
Flint looked up from his wine the way a man glances at a weather report. "We agreed to handle this privately," he said. His voice was slow and measured.
"We're not handling anything privately if you keep sleeping with my humiliation," Brielle said. "Are you seeing someone else?"
"I am not," Flint answered. "You are making an accusation."
"You are making a liar out of me." Brielle pushed a chair back and stood. "I decorated this table. I cooked. I tried."
"But you are the one who wants a public divorce," Flint said. "You brought the papers."
The butler, Donovan, stayed three steps behind Brielle and two steps behind silence.
"Sign it," Brielle said again. "Or say the word and end it. One signature."
Flint's eyes slid to the door as if he might escape through it. "I will not be rushed into a signature by theatrics," he said.
"You're calling me theatrical?" Brielle laughed until it cut off. "You know what? Fine. If you swear you didn't—"
The service bell at the entry chimed. Donovan hesitated, then moved to the foyer to receive a late envelope with the emblems of a freelance photographer on the front.
"Mr. Holmes, Miss Vorobyov," Donovan said, holding the envelope like it might explode. "This arrived addressed to Miss Vorobyov."
Brielle ripped the seal with a hand that trembled once and steadied.
"Photos," she said. She didn't
