Logan reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a heavy, gold Montblanc pen—a gift I had bought him for our first anniversary. He didn’t even look at me. He didn’t ask if I understood what was happening. He simply assumed I was an oblivious, deaf ghost sitting beside him.
He brought the gold tip of the pen down toward the signature line on the multi-million-dollar document.
My hand shot out like a striking viper.
I grabbed his wrist. My grip wasn’t weak or trembling. It was a steel vise, fueled by weeks of suppressed rage and betrayal.
Logan jumped, startled by the sudden, aggressive physical contact. He looked down at my hand, then up at my face, a flash of genuine annoyance crossing his features.
“Babe, let go,” Logan said, his voice tight, trying to maintain his polite facade in front of the mediator. He tried to pull his arm away, but I held on with bone-crushing force. He leaned closer, exaggerating his lip movements, speaking to me like a slow child. “Let. Go. I’m handling this.”
I slowly turned my head to look directly into his eyes.
I dropped the blank, damaged stare. I let the absolute, freezing ice in my soul show clearly on my face. My posture straightened, returning to the commanding, sharp woman I had always been.
“You aren’t handling anything, Logan,” I said.
My voice was slightly raspy from weeks of disuse, but it was perfectly clear, impeccably steady, and loud enough to echo in the large room.
From the corner of the room, there was a sharp gasp, followed immediately by the sound of shattering crystal. Pamela had dropped her glass of sparkling water. It broke against the floor, soaking her expensive shoes.
Logan turned the color of wet ash. The arrogant, confident posture completely collapsed in on itself. He stared at me, his eyes wide with a terror that was deeply, incredibly satisfying to witness.
