Page 155 of Sweet Obsession

Sofia gave me a look that silenced the denial.

“I won’t push,” she said, laying a warm hand over mine. “But when you’re ready... I’ll be here. You shouldn’t have to carry so much alone.”

I blinked rapidly, afraid my silence might become sobs. Sofia stood and left quietly, her perfume lingering like comfort.

I slipped out an hour later, telling Misha’s driver I was craving a snack.

Instead, I walked into the dim backroom of a notary’s office and asked for the divorce papers. The woman didn’t recognize me—thank God. She slid the crisp documents across the table, and my hands trembled as I touched them.

This wasn’t strength. This was heartbreak.

Tears hit the page before ink did.

My palm flattened over my belly.

Forgive me, I whispered. But I have to choose you.

If this man wants to be in your life, he’ll fight the right way. The honest way. The way I deserve.

I held the papers to my chest, swallowed the sob threatening my throat, and whispered the words I knew would break me later:

“If he wants me... let him come find me. But not like this.”

By the time I returned to the estate, the sky had darkened into violet bruises. I set the envelope in my drawer. I wouldn’t sign it. Not yet. I’d give him one more chance.

So I picked up the phone.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” I said quietly when he answered.

There was a pause.

His voice dropped, sharp and suspicious. “Is something wrong?”

Yes. But I didn’t say that.

“I just want to talk.”

Another pause. “I’ll be there.”

I looked out the window as I hung up. I wasn’t hoping. I wasn’t begging.

I just needed to see if the man I fell in love with... was still somewhere inside the monster I’d married.

“I’ll make dinner myself tonight,” I told Sofia, rolling up my sleeves as I stepped into the kitchen.

She blinked. “You... cook now?”

“Just for tonight.”

“Should I help?”

“No. Don’t cook anything. Please.”

She hesitated, eyes scanning my face like she was trying to read the fine print of my soul. But she nodded slowly and leaned on the marble counter, arms crossed gently as she watched me.

I pulled out the ingredients one by one, the ones he always asked for on long nights—the ones he once told me reminded him of his mother’s kitchen growing up. I knew what he loved: roasted lamb in white garlic sauce, warm black bread, potatoes caramelized in honey and salt. Comfort food. Home food.

I seasoned everything with trembling hands, every stir a prayer, every sizzle a heartbeat.