Chapter 5

The silence was suffocating. The long table was laden with exquisite dishes—French escargots, black truffle cream soup, pan-seared foie gras, Wagyu steak, and that bottle of 1945 Romanée-Conti from Damian’s private collection. This was likely the most lavish meal we’d shared in three years, and also the Last Supper.

Damian wasn't eating. He kept checking his watch, occasionally taking a sip of wine, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

The butler and maids had been sent away, leaving just the two of us in the vast dining room. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows against the walls like a play drawing to its close.

"Catherine." Damian set down his glass, pulled a document from the briefcase beside him, and slid it across to me. "We need to talk."

The document was thick, its cover embossed with gold lettering. I didn't need to look to know what it was—*Divorce Agreement*.

Expected.

Yet, I still feigned an expression of shock. My fingers trembled slightly, and my lips parted softly. "This... this is..."

"Claire is coming back." When Damian spoke those words, there was a light in his eyes that he had never shown me in three years—a sincere, fervent, almost pious light. "I don't want her to misunderstand anything. Let's end our contract a month early."

His tone was flat, laced with a hint of condescending charity. "In addition to what was stipulated in the prenup, I’ve prepared a penthouse for you in Lincoln Park. Five hundred square meters, with a lake view. Plus fifty million dollars in alimony. You’ve cooperated well these past three years; consider this your... bonus."

*Bonus.*

An apt description. Like an extra red envelope from the boss after an employee wraps up a major project.

He leaned back in his chair, waiting for my reaction. According to the script, the current me should be pale-faced, weeping like rain, trembling as I begged him not to abandon me, professing how deep my love for him ran.

After all, I had played the "lovesick fool" for three years. Every time he came home late, I waited until deep into the night; every time he frowned, I walked on eggshells; every time he gave me a gift, I acted overwhelmed with gratitude. He must have thought I was too deep in character to ever pull myself out.

I picked up the agreement, my fingers gliding over the smooth paper. Flipping to the property division page, dense clauses listed everything I would receive: the apartment, the alimony, ownership of several cars, some jewelry... It was generous. For a stand-in, it was overly generous.

But I knew why—Damian wanted to ensure I left cleanly, without causing any trouble for his new life. Using money to gag an ex-wife is the most effective method.

I continued flipping until I reached the last page. The signature line was blank.

"A pen," I said, extending my hand, my tone calm.

Damian paused, obviously not expecting me to be this decisive. He hesitated, then retrieved his limited-edition Montblanc from his inner suit pocket—the pen he used to sign billion-dollar contracts.

I took the pen. No hesitation, no trembling. I uncapped it and wrote my name on the signature line: Catherine Vaughan.

The handwriting was scrawled and sharp, revealing a sense of liberated pleasure. The tail of the last letter was drawn out long, like an unsheathed blade.

"Done." I capped the pen, slid it back to him, raised my head, and flashed a brilliant smile.

Not the submissive, shy smile of before, but a relaxed, perhaps even slightly mocking smile, like a traveler finally unburdened of a heavy load.

"I wish you and Miss Claire happiness, Damian. I hope she likes the new renovations on the third floor."

Damian froze.

He frowned, leaning forward to scrutinize my face, seemingly trying to find traces of a disguise in my expression. But he found none—I was serious. I was truly wishing him well.

"You aren't... sad?" he asked subconsciously, a thread of confusion, perhaps even displeasure, in his voice.

Why shouldn't I be sad? Why shouldn't I be having a breakdown? This wasn't within his control.

"Why should I be sad?" I stood up and smoothed out the hem of my dress, my movements elegant and composed. "This is business, Damian. The contract has expired, payment is made, and goods are delivered. I have strong professional ethics. Were you satisfied with the performance these past three years?"

In that moment, I saw Damian’s pupils constrict slightly.

His fingers tightened unconsciously into a fist. That face, always so calm and self-possessed, showed a crack for the first time—confusion, annoyance, and a hint of... feeling offended?

For the first time, he felt that the woman before him was terrifyingly essentially a stranger. This wasn't the docile, always subservient Catherine he knew. This was someone he had never met.

"You..." He opened his mouth but didn't know what to say.

I walked around the dining table to his side, leaned down, and whispered softly in his ear, "By the way, Damian. Claire has had a live-in boyfriend in Paris for two years. He's her agent, Mark Renault. You might want to look into that."

With that, I straightened up, gave him one last perfect smile, and turned to leave the dining room.

My heels clicked against the marble floor, crisp and rhythmic, like the drumbeats of victory.

Behind me, there was a deathly silence.

I knew that from this moment on, the nature of the game had changed.

Damian Blackwood thought he was the one in control of everything, but he was wrong.

The real show was just beginning.