CARRYING HIS HOT BIKERS PUPS

The housekeeper, Maria, found Kara arranging white roses in the foyer.

"Mrs. Whitaker," she said, her voice soft, "Mr. Whitaker is waiting for you in the study."

Kara's fingers stilled on a petal. It was the first time he had summoned her in the six months they'd been sleeping in separate wings of the sprawling estate.

She nodded, not turning around. "Thank you, Maria."

The walk to the study felt longer than usual. The hallway was a canyon of shadows, lined with portraits of Whitaker ancestors whose painted eyes seemed to follow her. Her heels sank into the Persian rug, making no sound. It felt like walking through water.

She pushed open the heavy walnut door.

Julian stood with his back to her, a silhouette against the vast window overlooking the gardens. He was in a Tom Ford suit, perfectly tailored, his posture radiating a cold, unapproachable power.

He turned at the sound of the latch clicking shut. His handsome face was a mask of indifference.

"Sit down, Kara." His voice was as cool and sharp as the cut of his suit. He gestured with his chin toward the polished mahogany desk where a single blue folder sat.

She didn't move. She just watched him, her stillness a quiet defiance. She knew this moment was coming. She had been waiting for it for two years.

A flicker of impatience crossed his features. He walked behind the desk himself, the leather of his chair groaning as he sat. He pushed the folder across the vast, empty surface toward her.

"Seraphina is awake," he said. It wasn't an explanation. It was a verdict.

"I need to do right by her," he added, his gaze fixed on the folder, not on her. "This is the divorce agreement. The terms are generous, exactly as stipulated in our prenup."

Kara's fingertips brushed the cold, glossy cover before she picked it up. The logo of Sullivan & Cromwell, New York's most formidable law firm, was embossed at the top.

She opened it.

Page after page of sterile legal language detailed the assets she would receive: cash, an Upper East Side apartment, some negligible fund shares. Each clause felt like a price tag on the last two years of her life.

Julian watched her, waiting. He expected tears, accusations, a scene. Anything but this unnerving silence, broken only by the soft rustle of paper. A strange irritation began to crawl under his skin.

"Is there a problem?" he finally asked, his tone laced with a scrutiny he couldn't hide.

Kara reached the last page. She picked up the Montblanc pen that was already laid out for her. Her signature was fluid and clean: Kara Webster.

She closed the folder and pushed it back to him.