"To bring you home," I said. "To give you back everything I took."
"I have everything I need," she replied without looking around. "The boxes are opened, Gabriel. The apartment is paid for. The divorce papers were processed last week."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Processed? You... you finalized it?"
"I signed the final decree on Tuesday," she said, her voice even. "You were served at your office this morning. Didn't your lawyers tell you?"
I stood frozen. I hadn't checked my mail. I had ignored my legal team for three days, consumed entirely by the pathology report.
"Isabelle, please," I begged, dropping to one knee beside her drafting table, abandoning every shred of pride, every dollar of my billions, every ounce of the reputation I had built. I reached for her hand, the hand that bore the small silver scar from where a needle had pierced her skin while she worked on my very first runway line. "Take the empire. Take the houses, the brand, the money. Strip me down to forty-seven dollars again. Put me back in that tiny room on 10th Street. Just don't erase us."
