Divorce Agreement：Please Sign, Mr. Moretti

My husband's mistress sent a bed photo.

Bare chest. His chest. Right next to my treble clef tattoo, she'd scrawled a name in lipstick.

Tiffany.

The blonde little tramp didn't even bother with waterproof.

I didn't cry. Didn't call to demand answers. I closed my laptop, booked a one-way ticket to Reykjavik departing seven days later. Passenger name: Evelyn Carter. Then I dialed a number.

West Side Chicago, a laundromat off Cicero Avenue.

Two in the morning. Fluorescent lights buzzing, the air thick with bleach and dryer sheets. He sat in the back, next to the folding table, holding a dripping Italian beef sandwich on wax paper. Mid-forties, Carhartt jacket, faded prison ink crawling up his wrists.

I placed the envelope on the table. Cash. Full amount.

He didn't touch it. Wiped his fingers. Looked at me, then at the envelope.

"New identity. Full package."

"Passport, driver's license, social security number. Clean credit history, backdated two years. Enough to get you on a plane and vanish." He paused. "Not cheap."

I set down a second envelope.

He thumbed the stack, didn't count. Just weighed it in his palm. Old-school. Knew the amount by feel.

"Two weeks."

"One week." I held his gaze.

He chewed on the timeline. "Ten days. Don't ask for less."

I nodded.

***

"One more thing." He leaned back, studying me. "The moment that passport prints, Olivia Moretti is a dead woman. You leave behind one strand of hair, one parking ticket, one credit card charge under your old name, and they'll track you. A man like your husband won't hire amateurs. You understand what you're walking away from?"

I stood up.

"That's the point."

Twenty minutes later, I was lying on a tattoo parlor's leather chair.

The laser fired. A sharp, piercing whine drilled into my eardrum. Like someone pressing a red-hot razor against my collarbone, scraping back and forth.

The Moretti family eagle, inch by inch, vanishing from my skin.

It hurt.

Hurt like a searing blade peeling off skin.

But I didn't make a sound.

Four years of memories. Nico's face, his kisses, his lies. All of it burning to ash with that ink.

Worth it.

It was past eleven at night when I got back to Lincoln Park.

Twelve-million-dollar standalone mansion. Nico's wedding gift to me.

I used to think it was the most beautiful house in the world. Now even stepping through the front door felt like the walls were closing in. Every room smelled like his cologne and my silence.

This wasn't a home anymore.

It was a mausoleum with a kitchen.

The TV was on, replaying a Chicago Magazine interview. My husband filled the screen.

Nico Moretti.

Dark hair slicked back, deep brown eyes holding that inborn arrogance. He stared straight into the camera, slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and revealed the tattoo on his chest—a spread-wing eagle, talons gripping a rose and a dagger.

"That's loyalty." His voice was low, like a cello, his fingers resting on the family crest over his heart. "And this."

The camera zoomed in.

Beneath the crest, a delicate treble clef tattoo.

"My wife Olivia is a genius musician." He smiled, lifting his left hand to show the platinum wedding band. "She gave up Carnegie Hall for me. That sacrifice—I carved it into my heart. I'll never erase it."

My fingers touched the gauze on my collarbone.

The skin was still burning.

Never erase it?

Bullshit.

Two months ago. The first text from an unknown number.

A photo popped up.

My world shattered.

Tiffany. Naked. Lying in my husband's arms. Covered in hickeys. Her finger pointing at Nico's chest—right beside my treble clef, her name was scrawled there.

Written in lipstick.

Something that washes off with water.

But he let her write it.

Then came a dozen more photos. Our vacation house on Lake Michigan. Our favorite pizza place. My birthday—while I thought he was handling "family business," he was pinning that little whore against the study wall.

"Nico says he only feels like a man when he's inside me. You can't even get him hard, can you, Olivia? Maybe it's time you stepped aside."

The sound of a key turning.

He was back.

Footsteps crossed the hardwood floor, approaching slowly. The scent of cheap perfume reached me first—that sickeningly sweet vanilla body spray, mixed with smoke and whiskey. Not the Tom Ford I bought him.

White shirt rumpled, tie crooked. A distinct bite mark on his neck.

"Olivia? Still awake?" He walked toward me, reaching to pull me into his arms.

I raised a hand and blocked him.

"You smell like a cheap whore," I said.

He froze. His gaze dropped to my collarbone, to the white gauze covering where the family crest used to be.

His voice dropped, taking on a dangerous edge.

"Olivia. What happened to your tattoo?"

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