*Darius POV*
Darius had expected many things after he asked for the divorce.
Silence.
Delayed anger.
A call from her lawyer.
A message asking for clarification, negotiation, reconsideration.
What he had not expected—
was efficiency.
The night he asked for the divorce, he slept better than he had in months.
That surprised him.
He had anticipated restlessness, maybe guilt, maybe the dull echo of a decision too big to sit quietly in the body. Instead, his mind felt clear. Ordered. As if a mental backlog had finally been closed.
The marriage, he told himself, had been resolved.
Completed.
He repeated that word internally as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of the master bedroom.
Completed did not mean cruel.
Completed did not mean failure.
It meant something had served its function and no longer required maintenance.
He rolled onto his side and exhaled.
Alina had understood. That was the most important part.
She had not cried.
She had not raised her voice.
She had not tried to renegotiate the premise of something he had already concluded.
She had simply… accepted it.
He told himself that meant maturity.
The next morning, Darius woke earlier than usual.
He showered, dressed, and reviewed emails at the kitchen counter, the apartment still quiet. He noticed, vaguely, that Alina had already left for the day. Or perhaps she had not come back at all.
He did not check.
By the time he returned that evening, it was already dark.
The apartment lights were on.
That, at least, was familiar.
He heard movement from the bedroom.
Drawers.
Soft thuds.
The sound of fabric shifting.
Darius stopped in the hallway.
He frowned, a crease forming between his brows—not irritation, but confusion. The sounds were too deliberate to be routine.
He stepped closer.
The bedroom door was open.
And Alina was packing.
For a moment, he simply stood there.
She had arranged three suitcases on the bed—large, structured, neutral in color. Her wardrobe was open. Clothing had been sorted neatly into piles. Shoes were lined up on the floor with almost military precision.
Nothing was frantic.
Nothing was emotional.
She looked… organized.
Calm.
Intentional.
Darius cleared his throat.
"Alina."
She turned at once, as if she had expected him.
"Yes?"
Her voice was even. Polite. The voice she used at dinners, meetings, social events.
Not the voice of someone who had just been divorced.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
The question came out more sharply than he intended.
She looked briefly at the suitcase, then back at him.
"Packing."
"For…?"
"For leaving."
The word landed heavier than he expected.
He stepped into the room. "You don't need to move out immediately. The agreement gives you six months."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"I don't see the point of staying."
There was no accusation in her tone. No wounded edge.
Just logic.
That unsettled him.
He watched as she folded a blouse carefully and placed it into the suitcase.
"You don't have to rush," he said. "There's no deadline."
Alina paused, finally looking directly at him.
"I'm not rushing," she replied. "I've had time."
That phrase again.
I've had time.
It struck him then that this was not sudden for her.
The realization tightened something in his chest.
"You're… very calm," he said.
She smiled faintly. Not warmly. Not coldly. Just neutrally.
"Should I not be?"
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
Darius hesitated.
He had rehearsed conversations for years—boardroom confrontations, investor fallout, hostile negotiations. Words usually came easily.
This time, they didn't.
"I thought you might want to talk," he said finally. "Process things."
She closed the suitcase gently.
"We already did. You were very clear."
"That was one conversation."
"It was enough."
Her certainty bothered him more than resistance would have.
"You didn't ask anything," he said. "You didn't… question it."
"What would I ask?"
"Anything. Why. Whether there was room to adjust things."
"Adjust what?"
"The marriage."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"You said it no longer made sense," she replied. "I agree."
That was not the response he had expected.
Darius felt an unexpected flicker of irritation.
"You're acting like this doesn't affect you."
"It does," she said calmly. "But that doesn't require performance."
Performance.
The word sat between them, sharp and precise.
He watched her move around the room, selecting items, folding them with care. She was methodical, as she had always been. Efficient. Disciplined.
It occurred to him—uncomfortably—that she looked like someone executing a long-planned decision.
"You were… waiting for this?" he asked before he could stop himself.
She didn't answer immediately.
Then she said, "I was prepared."
Not waiting.
Prepared.
The distinction mattered.
He leaned against the dresser, arms crossed.
"You don't seem angry."
"I'm not."
"Sad?"
"Yes."
She said it simply. As a fact.
"But sadness isn't always loud."
He nodded slowly, though the answer unsettled him.
He had expected to be the one with clarity.
Instead, she seemed to have reached it first.
"I thought you might want to stay friends," he said, attempting a softer angle. "We don't have to be adversaries."
Alina looked at him then—really looked at him.
"We were never adversaries," she said. "And we were never friends."
That landed harder than any accusation.
She zipped the suitcase shut.
The sound echoed in the room.
"Where will you go?" he asked.
"Somewhere far."
"Don't you want to tell me?"
"I don't mind telling you," she replied. "But you don't need to know."
He felt something unfamiliar rise in him.
Displacement.
"You're making this very… clean," he said.
"That's how you framed it," she replied. "I'm following your lead."
The irony was sharp.
For the first time since the office, Darius felt unsteady.
He had imagined this phase—the after—as something he would manage. A transitional inconvenience. A necessary step toward freedom.
Instead, he was watching Alina detach with alarming composure.
"You know," he said slowly, "most people would fight harder."
She met his gaze.
"It wouldn't change anything between us."
The words were quiet.
They cut anyway.
He searched her face for something—regret, longing, resentment.
There was none.
Only resolve.
"Do you regret marrying me?" he asked.
She considered the question.
"No," she said finally. "But I don't regret leaving either."
He nodded, absorbing that.
A strange thought crossed his mind then.
She looks lighter.
Not happy.
But unburdened.
That was… unexpected.
As she lifted the suitcase from the bed, he stepped aside instinctively.
"Will you let me know if you need anything?" he asked.
She paused at the door.
"I've been managing fine for years."
It wasn't cruel.
It was true.
After she left the room, Darius remained standing there.
The space felt altered.
Not empty—just rearranged.
He looked at the closet. Half of it was already bare.
He realized, with a faint jolt, that she had not taken anything impulsively.
She had planned.
Later that night, he sat alone in the living room.
The silence felt different now.
Not oppressive.
Not comforting.
Just… present.
He replayed the conversation in his head.
Her calm.
Her agreement.
Her readiness.
It unsettled him more than tears would have.
He had thought the marriage bored him.
That it no longer entertained him.
That it had completed its function.
What he had not considered—
was that she might have outgrown it quietly.
Without him noticing.
For the first time, a thin thread of doubt slipped through his logic.
Not regret.
Not yet.
But curiosity.
When did she stop needing this?
He dismissed the thought.
He had made the right decision.
The rational decision.
Still—
As he sat alone in the apartment that night, Darius realized something unexpected.
The marriage might have stopped entertaining him.
But Alina's calm?
That disturbed him.
And for reasons he could not yet articulate—
he suspected she had been waiting for this far longer than he had ever known.