I had been catastrophically blind to the fact that Ethan had slowly, masterfully shifted every ounce of his dead weight onto my back, slapping the label of “partnership” on my exploitation.

After the notary stamped the documents, Ethan followed me into the fluorescent-lit hallway. “Olivia.” I stopped, my hand resting on the strap of my briefcase, but I didn’t turn to face him.

Lauren, ever the apex predator, stepped between us. Ethan held his hands up defensively. “Lauren, please. Can I just have two minutes to speak to my wife alone?”

“Ex-wife,” Lauren corrected, the word slicing through the air like a scalpel. I gently touched Lauren’s arm, signaling her to stand down. I turned to face the man who had derailed my life.

“You can speak right here, Ethan.” His jaw tightened, but the fight had been thoroughly beaten out of him. “I know you despise me. I know you hate me.”

“I don’t,” I replied smoothly. That halted him. He blinked, clearly thrown off his script. “You don’t?” “No. Hate requires a level of emotional investment and proximity that I am no longer willing to afford you.”