Instead, I opened my handbag, took out the house keys, and placed them on the mediator’s desk with a soft metallic click. Then I withdrew two blue passports, crisp and ready, the visas already stamped inside. I laid them beside the keys and looked directly at Ryan.
“The children and I are leaving for Paris today,” I said.
His smile vanished instantly. “Paris?” he repeated. “With what money?”
Sophia let out a laugh. “Please. Elena can’t even—”
The office door opened before she could finish. The receptionist stepped aside, and a uniformed driver in a black coat entered with the kind of composed efficiency that belongs to people who work for old money or serious power. He inclined his head politely.
“Mrs. Elena,” he said, “your car is ready.”
Ryan stared at him, then at me, then through the office window toward the street below. A sleek black Audi idled at the curb, polished to a mirror shine.
For the first time all morning, Ryan looked uncertain.
I rose from my chair. Mia, six, stood against the wall clutching the stuffed rabbit she refused to sleep without. Leo, eight, held his backpack in both hands and was trying very hard to look brave. I went to them, took their hands, and turned back to the room.
“From this moment on,” I said quietly, “we won’t be in your way.”
Ryan pushed back from the table. “Elena, don’t be dramatic.”
Dramatic. That word again. Dramatic when I noticed the hotel charges. Dramatic when I asked why money was moving through an LLC I had never heard of. Dramatic when Vanessa Delaney began liking old anniversary photos of Ryan and me on social media and pretending it was accidental. Dramatic, in Ryan’s vocabulary, meant any truth he did not want to hear.
I did not answer him. I lifted Mia into my left arm, reached for Leo with my free hand, and walked out.
