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The silence in my Beverly Hills home office pressed against me like a physical weight, broken only by the soft hum of my laptop and the distant whisper of wind through the palm trees outside. I sat frozen at my mahogany desk—the same desk Shane had surprised me with after his first major film deal, back when his eyes still lit up when he looked at me. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, cursor blinking mockingly in the empty document titled "Divorce Papers - Draft." The joint financial accounts glowed on my screen, each number a testament to our shared success. Our success. The irony tasted bitter on my tongue. Every dollar in those accounts had been built on my sacrifices—the jobs I'd worked while he auditioned, the dreams I'd shelved, the years I'd believed in us when