It was a quiet April night in Riverlyn.

Emma Carter crouched in front of the mourning hall, wrapped in a black mourning gown that made her already slender frame seem even more delicate. Ash drifted like snow, the burnt paper leaving eerie trails in the air. She rubbed at her red, swollen eyes and let out a persistent cough.

"Ma'am, please go upstairs and get some rest," Nanny Lee hurried over to help her up, worry all over her face. "You just got over pneumonia. It's not good to keep breathing in all this ash."

"I'm alright," Emma shook her head slowly, eyes still fixed on the familiar, loving face in the black-and-white portrait ahead. Her voice was quiet. "It's his seventh-day memorial. I just want to… stay a little longer with Dad."

Nanny Lee sighed. "Such a good man, gone just like that. And now the whole company’s on your shoulders—though fortunately, Mr. Brooks is still there to steady things."

Emma didn’t say anything. There wasn’t much to say.

Her father had died so suddenly from a brain hemorrhage. And since the funeral, Ethan Brooks had buried himself in the chaos at Carter Group—rearranging structure, shifting shares, redoing the board, locking in place his own allies.

But all of that... she didn’t care anymore. She’d grown used to his absence over the three years of their marriage. There were already too many nights she had no clue where he was sleeping.

Then, bright headlights pierced through the window, making Emma squint through smoke-stung eyes.

Ethan stumbled in through the front door, tipsy, shirt wrinkled and lips slightly red. Outside, a flashy red sports car zoomed past the front gate and vanished into the night.

Emma had seen that car before. It was hard to ignore. Probably belonged to... some woman.

Looking at Ethan slumped on the couch, cheeks flushed from alcohol, Emma let out a soft sigh. She knew he rarely drank unless he was either especially frustrated or especially happy. Either way, it never had anything to do with her.

She’d never really been part of his world.

“Go ahead and rest, Nanny Lee,” Emma said, gently sending the elder woman off before approaching Ethan, intending to help him change out of his clothes.

But he frowned, clearly annoyed, and pushed her hand away. Without waiting, he began unbuttoning his shirt and yanking off his tie himself.

Emma froze for a moment, her gaze resting on the skin revealed under his open shirt—faint, rose-colored marks across his chest like a cruel joke spelled out in bruises.

Was it the alcohol speaking, or that faint lipstick mark? Was it his capable and soft-spoken female assistant at work, or some flirty client he dealt with daily?

Emma let out a bitter laugh. Honestly, whoever it was, they probably looked way more interesting and appealing than her—pale, fragile, and completely boring.

"You drank too much. I'll go make you some herbal tea." She stepped back a couple of paces and turned toward the kitchen.

"No need. I’m not drunk," Ethan replied with a scoff, sitting up straighter on the couch.

He grabbed the black leather briefcase beside him, pulled out a stack of papers, and tossed them onto the coffee table.

"Sign these," he said flatly, his tone making it clear there was no discussing it.

Emma glanced down, already guessing what they were. Probably just company paperwork—standard stuff after her father passed.

Even though she'd never really been involved in the company, she was John Carter’s only daughter. Certain things needed her signature now—like giving up preemptive rights to shares, or assigning power of attorney.

And at the very bottom of the stack—cold, stark, and undeniable—was the divorce agreement.

Her fingers turned slightly numb as she held the pen, like that eerie chill in early spring that cuts right to the bone.

Emma took a small, shaky breath, then looked up. "So, you've really made up your mind?"

Ethan paused, then said calmly, "Yeah. It’s better for both of us."

Honestly, she'd been bracing for this, part of her had expected it. But seeing just how firm he was, how he didn't even try to explain or soften the blow—it still stung.

"Your dad set up a trust fund in your name through the company. It'll be enough to support you from here on out. I’m not touching that money," Ethan added, lighting a cigarette and speaking slowly.

The smoke curled out lazily, drifting straight into Emma’s face. Her chest tightened, and she let out a soft cough.

"This house was bought after we got married," he went on, brushing ash off the edge of the ashtray. "You can keep it. Take your time reading the rest—I’m not rushing you."

But before he could finish his sentence, Emma had already flipped to the last page and, without a word, scribbled her delicate signature down.