She glances up at me, hesitating. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just… usually by the time the second party comes in, the initial filing is already signed by the petitioner.”
“The… petitioner?” I repeat.
“Your wife,” she clarifies. “She’s the one who retained us first.”
Right. Of course she is.
“She… didn’t sign?” I ask slowly.
The receptionist shakes her head, almost amused. “She came in yesterday. Everything was prepared, Ms. Sokolova walked her through the documents, and then she just… looked at the papers like they might bite her, apologized, said she forgot she hadanother appointment, and ran out. I’ve never seen anything like it from a client first in line to file. A little odd, honestly.”
Something in my chest lurches.
“She told us,” the receptionist adds, “that she’d come back in after you had a chance to sign. So we were going to have you sign your portion today, then contact her again.”
I just stare at her for a second.
She couldn’t sign.
Kat, who can dance on bloody feet. Who can plaster on a perfect smile for the cameras? Who walked up to me in that hallway and told me we were over like she was discussing the weather.
“She couldn’t sign?” I ask.
“Correct,” the receptionist says gently, misreading my silence. “She was visibly shaken, I would say… maybe a blood sugar issue. Sometimes it’s difficult for people, even when they’re the ones who initiated it. Would you like some water before—”
“No,” I say abruptly. “I… actually think I need more time too.”
Her brows climb. “Oh. Of course. Do you want to reschedule your signing appointment?”
I take a breath.
Every rational part of my brain says:Just sign. She wants out. Give it to her.
But something small and stubborn and loud is suddenly awake and clawing at my insides.
She didn’t sign. She’s holed up with bodyguards. She’s ghosted her brother, the girls, and everyone except me long enough to send a clipped text.
Her grandmother tried to buy me off, and days later, a miracle trial spot opened up for my father out of nowhere.
“Actually,” I say slowly, “I think I’ll wait until my… wife has signed first. Just to make sure it’s what she really wants. I’ll reach out to Ms. Sokolova if I decide to move forward.”
The receptionist looks mildly confused but smiles professionally. “Of course, Mr. Easton. I’ll make a note in the file.”
The second I hit the elevator, my pulse starts hammering.
In the limo, her grandmother had an offer. Five times your contract to divorce her, she said. She mentioned that Kat might break up with me anyway and that I would lose the money; then Kat broke up with me anyway.
I can’t believe I forgot about it. Maybe because Katerina made her new opportunity in New York seem believable. Maybe because a deep part of me always worried I was still her temporary plan so when she said it in the hallway outside of the locker room, I believed her.
By the time I hit the sidewalk, that small piece of hope has become something else.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and scroll to the clinical trial email, the one with my dad’s enrollment paperwork. There’s a number in the header for “patient inquiries.”
I hit call with exact precision, like a slapshot right on target.
It rings twice.
“Dr. Markov’s office, how may I direct your call?” A woman’s voice, lightly accented.
