The day my four-year-old son asked me for a divorce, I was folding his tiny socks. I remember that detail because my hands froze mid-fold. Blue socks with little dinosaurs on them. I'd bought them myself because Julian never noticed what Elliot wore. "Mommy?" Elliot's voice was small but determined. "Can you divorce Daddy?" I looked up from the laundry basket. My son stood in the doorway of his bedroom, clutching the stuffed rabbit Julian's mother had given him. Not me. Never me. "What did you say, sweetheart?" He walked closer. His eyes—Julian's eyes, that same cold gray—met mine without hesitation. "Aunt Selene said if you divorce Daddy, she can be my real mommy. She said you'd understand because you don't really love us anyway." The sock fell from my hands. Four years old. My baby was four years old, and he was already delivering the killing blow his father had been sharpening since the day I'd told Julian I was pregnant. I should have been shocked. I should have cried. Instead, I felt something click into place. Like a door I'd been pushing against for six years suddenly swinging open. "Did Daddy tell you to say that?" I asked quietly. Elliot shook his head. "Aunt Selene did. But Daddy said it's okay because the family needs a proper mother. Someone who knows how to love him right." There it was. Six years of marriage. Six years of sleeping in separate wings of this massive, cold house. Six years of watching Julian light up whenever Selene walked into a room, while he looked through me like I was furniture. And now they'd gotten to my son. I knelt down in front of Elliot. I touched his soft cheek. He didn't pull away, but he didn't lean into my touch either. Selene had taught him well. "Okay," I said. "Okay?" His little face brightened. "So you'll do it?" "Yes, baby. I'll divorce your daddy." He smiled. Actually smiled. Then he ran off to play, probably to tell Selene the good news. I stood up slowly. My legs felt strange. Numb. Like they belonged to someone else. I walked downstairs. Through the marble foyer. Past the portraits of Julian's ancestors. Past the fresh flowers Selene had arranged yesterday when she'd stopped by for "lunch" that lasted until dinner. Julian was in his study. He was always in his study. I opened the door without knocking. He looked up from his laptop, annoyed. "What is it? I'm in the middle of—" "I want a divorce." The annoyance flickered. Then disappeared. He leaned back in his leather chair, studying me like I was a mildly interesting stock report. "Finally," he said. "I was wondering when you'd come to your senses." No surprise. No concern. Just relief. Of course. "I'll have my lawyer draw up the papers," he continued. "You'll get a reasonable settlement. Enough to live comfortably. But Elliot stays here. He's a Blackwood. He belongs with the family." "I know," I said. Now he looked surprised. "You're not going to fight for custody?" "No." "Why not?" I smiled. It felt foreign on my face. I hadn't really smiled in years. "Because you've already won, Julian. You and Selene have turned my son against me. What's the point of fighting?" He had the decency to look uncomfortable. Just for a second. "It's not personal," he said. "Selene is just... better suited for this life. You never fit in. You know that." I did know that. I'd known it since the day we married. Since the day he'd told me on our wedding night that he was only marrying me because his father insisted he needed a wife, and I was "acceptable enough." Since the day I'd overheard him tell Selene that he'd love her forever, wife or no wife. "I'll be out by the end of the week," I said. "That's not necessary. Take your time. A month, maybe." "No. One week." I turned to leave. "You're taking this remarkably well," Julian said behind me. "I expected tears. Drama." I paused at the door. Didn't turn around. "You don't know me at all, Julian. You never did." I walked out. And for the first time in six years, I felt like I could breathe.