The papers sat on the table between you, a stark reminder of what you were—what you were supposed to be. Nothing more than a business arrangement. A marriage of convenience. Six months. No complications. No feelings.

You had been foolish to think it could be anything else.

Matisse leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable as always, but his words cut through you like a blade.

"We had our fun. I got you out of my system."

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the divorce papers, your chest tightening at the sight of your name printed beside his—soon to be erased, like everything else between you.

"Now it’s probably better we both go our separate ways."

You forced yourself to look up at him, searching for something—anything—in those cold grey eyes. But there was nothing. No hesitation. No regret. Just the same detached indifference he had mastered long before you entered his life.

Had it all been a lie? The quiet moments shared in the early mornings, the way his hand would linger on yours as if reluctant to let go, the way he held you at night as if you were something more?

You had fallen in love with him. Stupidly, recklessly, completely.

But to him, you were just a passing phase. A contract. A mistake.

The lump in your throat was suffocating, the ache in your chest unbearable, but you refused to break—not in front of him. So you gave him a smile, small and brittle, as you picked up the pen.

"Right," you whispered, your voice barely steady. "No point dragging this out."

And with a single stroke of ink, you signed your name—the final act of letting him go.