Page 78 of Convenient Vows

“Do you want us to find her?” Lev asks.

My head snaps up, and I stare at him for a long moment. “No,” I say. “She left because she wants nothing to do with me. And I’m not going to drag her back here forcefully.”

Viktor’s jaw tightens. He sits forward, eyes narrowing. “And what do you want, Zasha?”

I don’t answer.

Lev speaks next. His voice is softer than usual. No teasing. No edge. Just quiet disbelief. “So that’s it? You’re going to just let her disappear?”

“She made her decision,” I say. “I’m respecting it.”

Viktor’s chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. “If you let this end without a fight, it means you never loved her. Come on, man, you have to fight for what you love.”

I snort quietly to myself, swirling what’s left of the drink in my glass.

“No,” I mutter. “Letting her have her wish is exactly what shows that I love her.” I say, tipping the glass back and drinking until there’s nothing left but fire in my lungs.

When they leave, I welcome the silence back, allowing it to cloak me in its icy clutches. The scotch weighs heavily in my stomach. My throat is raw. My fists ache from the last round of training, but it’s the ache in my chest that remains sharp, no matter how much I drink, bleed, or fight.

The divorce papers remain there, stirring and waiting for me. The top page is slightly curled at the edge, from how many times I’ve handled it. The ink from her signature is sharp and clean. A single sweep of a pen that says she is truly done.

I sit down, the leather creaking beneath me. The pen rests just beside the folder—uncapped. Ready.

The blank line beneath my name waits like a coffin lid.

I pick up the pen.

Hold it between my fingers.

The weight is familiar.

The action simple.

A line.

Just one line.

One signature to end it all.

I lower the tip of the pen toward the page.

My hand hovers.

I should do it.

It’s the right thing. The respectful thing. She’s made it clear she wants nothing from me—not even a conversation. Ignoring the pain in my chest, I press the pen down, ready to sign, but I stop—not because I think she’ll come back. I know she won’t, but still I can’t sign. Signing feels like killing the last thing tethering me to her. As long as that line stays empty, there’s still something real left between us.

I exhale, the sound long and low, and place the pen gently beside the folder without signing the document. I push the papers slightly away from me and stand up, as if even that distance might make the pain less sharp.

It doesn’t.

With the glass still in my hand, I step out onto the balcony, remembering how Mara used to sit on our balcony every morning with her tea. Every evening, she would read a book with her bare feet tucked underneath her. She’d hum to herself and sometimes read aloud in Spanish when she thought I wasn’t listening.

I close my eyes for a moment and see her: the soft outline, the sound of a page turning, her lashes catching the light, and the way her fingers curl around the spine of whatever book has her attention that week.

For the first time since I was born, I feel truly alone. It's not like the loneliness I felt in the orphanage, but worse. Because this time, I know what warmth feels like.

I’ve experienced it and lost it.

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