HAZEL'S POV
My husband put a contract next to my coffee. That's how I knew it was over.
"It's just an update, Hazel," Alex said. He pushed the paper toward me. It looked important, with a thick black border. "Think of it like a phone update. For us."
I stared at it. The words at the top said: Addendum to Marriage Agreement: Clause 7b.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It's a new rule," he said. He was already looking at his phone. "It makes things more flexible. It just writes down what we already know."
I drank my coffee. It tasted bitter. "What do we already know?"
He looked up. His eyes were blue and cool. They were the same eyes that convinced people to give him millions of dollars.
"We know we're smart people," he said. "Our marriage is strong. But life is long. People get curious." He pointed at the paper. "This keeps us safe. You, especially. You get your money, no matter what happens… outside."
A cold feeling spread in my chest. "Outside?"
"For both of us," he said smoothly, going back to his phone. "It's fair. It's modern. Successful people do this, Hazel. They make things efficient."
Efficient. Like I was a piece of furniture. Like our wedding was a business deal.
"You want to see other people." My voice was a whisper.
"I want us to be free," he corrected, not looking up. "I want to avoid problems later. This is the smart answer. Read it. Sign it. Let's keep feelings out of it."
I looked at the document. The words were big and legal. It talked about "allowed outside time" and "privacy rules." It had parts about the press and secrets. It was a manual for cheating.
"Is there another woman?" I asked. I wished I hadn't.
He put his phone down and smiled. It was a patient smile. The kind you give a child.
"This isn't about a person. It's about an idea. It's about freedom inside a safe box. I'm giving you the same freedom, Hazel. To try things. To have… experiences. Without breaking what we made."
What we made. His money. The apartment with the view. The charity with my name on it. The life that looked perfect in photos.
I thought about the last five years. How I talked less. How I stopped saying I wanted to paint. How I let my art studio go because his work dinners were "more important." How my world got small, just the size of his plans.
"What if I don't want… experiences?" I said.
"Then don't," he said, like it was easy. "This paper is just permission. You don't have to use it. But having it there… it takes the bad feelings away. It makes us stronger."
He said it like he believed it. This was just another contract to him. His company was his real love. Our marriage was a side project.
"I need to think," I said, pushing the paper away.
His smile went away. He looked annoyed. "What's to think? It's good for both of us. You get security. I get a modern marriage. We skip the messy middle-age fight."
"Thinking is my right," I said. A little fire sparked inside me.
He looked at me for a second, then shrugged. It was the move of a man who knows he's already won.
"Fine. Think. But I need it signed before the big party next week. It's better to start fresh with new rules." He stood up, fixing his perfect white shirt. "I have a meeting. We're buying a company in Germany. Try the new croissants. They're amazing."
He kissed the top of my head. It was a habit. Then he was gone.
I sat alone in the quiet kitchen. The sun came in the clean windows. Everything was perfect and empty. Like a museum.
I looked at the contract. Clause 7b.
My hand shook. I picked up my coffee. It was cold now.
I got up, holding the paper, and walked through our home. Past the living room no one used. Past the dining room table for twenty people that never had a family dinner. Past the guest rooms like hotel rooms.
I went to the room he called my "sitting room." A pretty room with soft chairs and books I never read. In the closet, behind fancy dresses I didn't pick, was a small box.
I hadn't opened it in three years.
My hands worked the lock—my birthday, a number Alex would never know. The lid opened.
The smell came out first. Paint. Oil. The memory of making things.
Inside were my old things. Tubes of paint, all dry. Brushes, stiff and old. Some blank canvases. A drawing book.
I took the book out. Dust flew in the sun. I sat on the floor and opened it.
The first pages were from art school. Drawings of people. Messy and full of life. Then there were drawings of Alex, from the beginning. Him laughing. Him thinking. Back when he was just Alex, not Alex Sterling, the billionaire.
I kept turning pages. The drawings stopped about two years in. The last pages were empty.
A tear fell on the paper. It made the pencil lines blur.
I looked from the drawing book on my lap to the cold contract next to me. Clause 7b.
An update. A permission slip. A win-win.
The cold feeling inside me started to melt. It hurt. This wasn't just about other women. It was about him offering to find the love and the fun somewhere else because it was easier than finding it with me.
He didn't want to fix us. He wanted a paper that let him ignore the broken parts.
I closed the drawing book. I looked at the contract.
A strange peace came over me. Like the quiet after loud noise.
Okay, Alex. You want a new rule?
Fine.
I picked up his pen. It was heavy and silver, with his initials. A pen for signing big deals.
I turned to the last page of the contract. I found the line that said Spouse Signature.
And I signed.
Hazel Sterling.
The ink looked dark on the white paper. I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel sad. I just felt empty.
I put the signed paper back on the kitchen counter, right where he left it. I put the cap on the pen.
Then I went back to my closet. I took my old drawing book and one dried-up tube of red paint. I walked out of the sitting room, through the perfect, quiet museum of my life, and out the front door.
I didn't know where I was going. But for the first time in years, I was walking somewhere on my own.