That breezy, unbothered smile on Annelise's face acted like a micro-needle, silently bursting the bubble of dignity Hackett had so carefully maintained.
He had seen her cry, he had seen her throw fits, he had seen her compromise, and he had seen her cautiously try to please him.
But he had never seen her smile like this.
Those eyes that used to gaze at him like a devoted, reliant fawn were now as still and freezing as a bottomless glacial lake.
There was no love, no hatred, not even a ripple of emotion.
It was as if Hackett—and the contract sitting between them that would dictate the rest of her life—were nothing more than irrelevant trash meant to be tossed aside.
This total indifference made Hackett feel an inexplicable, uncontrollable spike of irritation, far worse than any hysterical accusation could have caused.
His refined, elegant composure cracked. Beneath his glasses, his brows knotted together.
"Aren't you going to read it?" his tone was noticeably harder than before.
Annelise finally shifted her gaze from his face to the black-and-white print of the agreement.
She didn't reach for it.
Instead, she looked at him and asked her first question in a tone so cold and alien it was like he was hearing it for the first time.
"Why?"
It was the simplest question possible.
Yet Hackett felt like something had lodged in his throat.
His entire rehearsed script—the polished, standardized corporate-speak—instantly evaporated.
He had envisioned a specific narrative: he would ask for the divorce, she would be shocked, she would cry, and she would beg to know if he had stopped loving her.
Then, in his softest voice, he would tell her that their marriage had been a mistake from the start.
He would talk about "growing apart," about "spending too much time away from each other," and how, as a surgeon, he simply couldn't give her the companionship she deserved.
He would shoulder all the blame, casting himself as the deeply affectionate husband forced to let go out of guilt.

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