The ballroom lights were too bright.
Jasmine Towers stood at the edge of the celebration, champagne flute untouched in her hand, watching the city's elite circle her husband like moths to a flame. Laughter swelled and broke in practiced waves. Cameras flashed. The Acland Group's annual charity gala was supposed to be a victory lap—another year of record profits, another year of Keith Acland's name etched deeper into the skyline.
She should have felt proud.
Instead, a quiet pressure sat beneath her ribs, the kind that came before a storm.
"Mrs. Acland." A lawyer's voice cut through the music, crisp and polite. Too polite.
Jasmine turned. The man was unfamiliar—mid-forties, immaculate suit, neutral smile. He held a slim envelope in both hands as if it weighed more than it should.
"Yes?" she said.
"I'm here on behalf of Mr. Keith Acland."
The words landed wrong. On behalf of. As though Keith weren't ten steps away, laughing with the mayor, one hand resting easily at another woman's waist.
Jasmine followed the lawyer's gaze. She saw them then—Keith and Lila Monroe. Lila's smile was small and knowing, her posture intimate in a way that had never been accidental. Jasmine had learned to read rooms. She had learned to read women.
Her fingers tightened around the flute.
"Now?" Jasmine asked.
The lawyer's smile didn't falter. "If it's convenient."
The pressure under her ribs sharpened.
"Go ahead," Jasmine said.
The envelope slid into her hands. Thick. Official. Her name was printed cleanly on the front, black ink against white. Jasmine Towers Acland.
She opened it.
The first page said PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE in bold, merciless type.
The ballroom fell away.
For a moment, the sound of her own breathing was too loud. She scanned the page once, twice, reading without comprehension. Dates. Clauses. Assets. Language designed to be final.
A divorce.
Her mouth tasted like metal.
"Is this some kind of mistake?" she asked, though her voice was steady enough to surprise even herself.
"No, Mrs. Acland," the lawyer said gently. "Mr. Acland has authorized service tonight."
Tonight. Here.
Public.
She lifted her eyes, finding Keith across the room. As if summoned, he looked back. Their eyes met.
There was no confusion in his expression.
No surprise.
Only a brief tightening at the corner of his mouth, as though this were an unpleasant meeting he had already decided to endure.
Jasmine waited.
She waited for him to walk over. To say something. Anything.
Keith didn't move.
Lila leaned closer to him, whispering something. He nodded once.
The room seemed to tilt.
"Mrs. Acland," the lawyer said quietly, "if you'd like to step aside—"
"No," Jasmine said. The word came out sharp. She straightened, smoothing the skirt of her emerald gown. "This is fine."
A few heads turned. Whispers began to thread through the crowd, soft but fast. The lawyer's presence, the envelope, the stillness between husband and wife—nothing stayed private in rooms like these.
Jasmine felt every gaze like a pin.
She flipped to the signature page.
Keith's name was already there.
Signed.
Dated.
Neat and decisive.
The pressure under her ribs broke into something colder.
"May I speak to my husband?" she asked.
The lawyer hesitated, then stepped back.
Jasmine crossed the ballroom with measured steps. Her heels didn't falter. She had spent seven years learning how to walk beside Keith Acland without being consumed by his shadow. She would not stumble now.
When she reached him, the music seemed to dim.
"Keith," she said.
He excused himself from the circle, his expression carefully neutral. Lila's eyes followed Jasmine with open curiosity.
"Is this necessary?" Keith asked under his breath.
She held up the papers. "You tell me."
His gaze flicked down, then back up. "We agreed this was over."
"We agreed to discuss it," Jasmine said. "Not to turn it into a spectacle."
"This is efficient," he said. "You don't like prolonged conversations."
A laugh threatened to escape her, hysterical and sharp. She swallowed it. "You couldn't even look at me?"
Keith's jaw tightened. "Don't do this here."
"Here?" Jasmine repeated softly. "You chose here."
A pause. A beat too long.
Lila stepped closer, her voice low but audible. "Keith, the press—"
Jasmine turned to her. "Is there something you'd like to say?"
Lila's smile was polite. "I think this is between you and your husband."
"My husband," Jasmine echoed, and then looked back at Keith. "Do you want to explain to them why?"
Keith didn't answer.
The silence stretched. It told her everything.
The room leaned in.
Jasmine lowered her gaze to the signature page again. Then she took the pen the lawyer offered.
"Jasmine," Keith said quietly. "We can talk later."
"No," she said. "We're talking now."
She signed.
The pen scratched across the paper, the sound impossibly loud. Jasmine Towers Acland. Each letter was deliberate.
She handed the document back to the lawyer.
"Congratulations," she said to Keith, her voice even. "You're free."
A ripple moved through the crowd.
Keith's eyes flashed—anger, perhaps, or something like it. "You don't have to be dramatic."
Dramatic. The word settled somewhere deep and stayed there.
"Do I have to leave?" she asked.
"No," he said quickly. "Of course not."
"Good," Jasmine said. She turned, scanning the faces around them. Familiar people. Powerful people. People who had toasted her marriage for years. "Then I'll stay for one more thing."
She reached for a microphone from a passing waiter before anyone could stop her.
"Excuse me," she said into it. Her voice carried, clear and calm. "Thank you all for coming tonight. I just wanted to say—please enjoy the evening. I won't be staying long."
She set the microphone down.
Keith stared at her. "What are you doing?"
"Leaving," Jasmine said.
She walked away without waiting for a response, the weight of the room pressing at her back. She felt it all—the stares, the whispers, the sudden recalibration of loyalties.
By the time she reached the doors, her hands were steady.
Outside, the night air was cool and sharp. The city lights blurred for a second, then steadied.
Her phone buzzed.
A missed call. Another. A text from Keith: We need to talk.
She deleted it.
The car door closed with a soft, final click.
As the driver pulled into traffic, Jasmine leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
The marriage was over.
Behind the calm, something else stirred—quiet, resolute, unyielding.
Whatever came next, she would face it on her own terms.
And no one in that ballroom knew what she carried with her into the night.