“Lights on or lights off?” Broderick’s voice cuts through the dark. He drops his tie on the dresser and moves like he owns the room.
“Lights on,” I answer. My voice stays steady. I don’t want anything hidden tonight.
He walks to the bed and sits on the edge, palms flat, as if the sheet is a courtroom. “We need to end this cleanly.”
“You mean sign a paper,” I say. “You mean sell me back to anonymity and call it a settlement.”
“You know what I mean.” He slides a slim envelope across the comforter. “Sign the divorce papers. Quiet. No scandal. Four million. Public announcement in two days. You walk away with cash, and I go back to business and my life.”
“Four million?” I laugh and it sounds like a sound I’ve been keeping for years. “Do you think money erases everything? That price-tags fix reputations?”
He blinks. He’s surprised by my laugh. His mouth thins. “You just want drama.”
“I want justice.” I reach for the envelope. I tear it open. The contract is printed on heavy paper with the Matsumoto crest at the top. The clauses are neat, cold. His lawyer’s initial is at the bottom.
“Stop,” he says.
I slide the contract under the lamp and I tear it into strips. Paper curls like confetti. “Sign your own paper,” I say. “Burn it. File it. I’m not your mistake to be cleaned.”
He stands too fast. The
