William Croft did not knock. He signaled his security team to open the door to Victoria’s modest apartment, stepping inside with the air of a man who owned the very oxygen in the room. He tossed a thick leather folder onto her small, scuffed coffee table.
“It’s handled,” William announced, his voice tight. “I’ve bought the rights to the story from *The Insider*. The network is issuing a retraction within the hour. The search terms ‘Luna’ and ‘Termination’ are being scrubbed from every major platform as we speak.”
Victoria stood by the window, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across her face. She didn’t look grateful. She looked tired.
“And the price?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
“It doesn’t matter,” William dismissed, loosening his tie. He moved toward her, expecting the relief, the softening he was used to. “I’ve set up a trust. If you need money, you ask me. You don’t go on reality television and let vultures pick apart our private life. You’re Mrs. William Croft, not a carnival attraction.”
Victoria turned, her eyes dry and hard as flint. “That’s just it, William. You think you can buy my dignity back the same way you bought your company’s reputation. But I didn’t go on that stage for money. I went for a voice.”
“I am trying to save you!” William snapped, his patience fraying. “Do you have any idea what they are calling you? A child-killer. A vindictive shrew.”
“Let them,” Victoria said, stepping closer, forcing him to look down at her. “I don’t want your protection. I want a divorce.”
William recoiled as if slapped. He reached for her hand, but she pulled it back sharply. “I am not a damsel in distress, William. And you are certainly not a knight. You lost that title the day you chose her over me.”
She pointed to the door. “Take your money and your fixers and get out. The only thing I want you to sign is the decree absolute.”