Chapter 1
The air conditioning in the lobby of the Family Court was so cold, it felt like sitting inside an icebox. Chelsea Rooney sat on a stiff plastic chair, the chill crawling up her spine and sinking deep into her bones.
She was holding the queue number slip, its sweat-soaked edges wrinkled and soft. Just two people remained in front of her. Three years of marriage, and now it was finally wrapping up.
Her phone buzzed.
Jeffery Newsom's assistant sent a massag. [Ma'ma, Mr. Newsom has a last-minute meeting and might be half an hour late. Please wait for a bit.]
Chelsea glanced at the screen, without even raising her eyes, pressed it off, and set it on her knee.
Always last-minute.
Here he went again, last-minute.
*****
For three years, those words, "last-minute meeting," "last-minute social event," "last-minute business trip," had ground down all her expectations to nothing.
Chelsea used to reply gently, "Okay, take care of yourself." Then it was just a curt "Mm." And in the end, she couldn't even bother to fake it anymore.
It wasn't about being petty. She had nothing left to say.
She pulled out a photo from her wallet. In the picture, she was smiling brightly. A faint youthful blush lingered on her cheeks.
Jeffery, on the other hand, only managed a faint smile that never reached his eyes. The coldness in his gaze never faded.
On the day they took the photo, the photographer teased, "Hey, groom, get closer and give us a big smile." Jeffery went through the motions, but his smile was never meant for her.
Back then, Chelsea was clueless, thinking he was merely unused to the camera. It took her a long time to realize. He was never awkward with the camera. He was just awkward being close to her.
Holding the photo between her fingers, Chelsea turned it over.
It was blank, no date, no names, not even the faintest trace of them.
Just like their marriage. Nothing left behind but that cold, legal tie.
With a tight grip, Chelsea folded the photo in half, then again. The sound of paper tearing was especially sharp in the silent hall, splitting into four pieces.
The fragments scattered at her feet, one corner caught under the plastic chair leg, as a heart smashed to pieces, impossible to put back together.
"Chelsea Rooney, please."
The cold electronic voice sliced through the air.
Chelsea stood up, put her purse on her shoulder, her movements crisp and decisive, not a hint of hesitation.
Chelsea walked up to a lady clerk in her forties. She glanced over the documents Chelsea handed her, then peeked behind Chelsea as if looking for someone else.
"Where's the husband?" the woman asked.
"He's on his way, should be here soon," Chelsea replied, her voice calm and steady. "I'll start filling out the forms."
The woman didn't say anything else, just slid the forms over, her eyes showing a barely-there sympathy. Chelsea lowered her head and picked up the pen.
The sound of the pen gliding across the paper was soft, but with every stroke, she was condensing over a thousand days and nights of marriage into two flimsy pages.
Name, social security number, date of marriage registration...
She wrote down information calmly.
Those words were heavy enough to crush three years of her hope.
Just as she finished the last word, the familiar click of leather shoes sounded at the entrance.
It was sharp and hurried, like he was rushing to something that didn't even matter. Chelsea didn't bother to look up. She could recognize that sound anywhere, even with her eyes closed.
For three years, he'd always been like this at home, from the front door to the stairs, and from the stairs to the bedroom. Every step was quick and restless, as if he were always rushing off to a meeting, a dinner, or away from her.
Jeffery walked close, bringing the cold from outside with him. The temperature had dropped today, and he was only wearing a dark gray overcoat, its collar slightly open, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbone.
He was still as handsome as ever, with a sharp nose, thin lips, and that effortless, distant look in his eyes that never seemed to fade.
Back then, Chelsea thought she called it an aloof elegance, looking up at him so carefully, afraid to disturb that icy, untouchable aura. But now, all she saw was someone who didn't even bother to fake caring anymore.
"Where do I sign?" Jeffery asked, his voice as icy and emotionless as the chill clinging to him.
Chelsea lifted her hand and pointed to the bottom of the form.
Jeffery pulled a pen from his pocket, bent, and with a few quick strokes, his name swept across the page in a bold, careless flourish.
He straightened up, slipped the pen back into his pocket, and glanced at the watch on his wrist, a Patek Philippe, the one Chelsea had saved up six months' salary to buy him for their first wedding anniversary.