The ballroom lights were merciless.
They washed everything in gold—crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, silk gowns—turning the Acland Group's annual charity gala into a shrine to excess. Jasmine Towers stood just inside the perimeter of it all, smiling when required, invisible when convenient.
She was used to that.
Tonight was meant to be celebratory. Another year of record profits. Another building stamped with her husband's name. Another room full of people who knew Keith Acland mattered—and that she was the woman who stood quietly beside him.
Her hand rested unconsciously over her abdomen.
She told herself it was nerves.
"Mrs. Acland."
The voice was male. Professional. Detached.
Jasmine turned.
The man standing before her was not part of the social ecosystem. Mid-forties. Grey suit. Legal posture. He held a thin envelope like a weapon disguised as paperwork.
"Yes?" she said.
"I'm here on behalf of Mr. Keith Acland."
On behalf of.
The phrase struck wrong—especially when Keith was visible across the room, laughing easily with donors, his arm draped with careless familiarity around Lila Monroe.
Lila—who had no reason to be that close.
Jasmine's fingers tightened around her champagne flute.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
The man hesitated just long enough to confirm her fear. Then he handed her the envelope.
"Service of documents," he said. "As instructed."
The words SERVICE OF DOCUMENTS were stamped across the top in black.
The first page followed.
PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
The letters blurred.
For a moment, Jasmine could not hear the music. Or the laughter. Or her own breathing. The room narrowed to ink and paper and the faint smell of citrus polish.
She turned the page.
Assets. Timelines. Clauses.
Everything already decided.
She looked up.
Keith was watching her now.
Not with regret.
With impatience.
As if she were late to understand something he had resolved weeks ago.
Her throat tightened.
"This… is a mistake," she said, the sentence leaving her mouth before she could stop it.
The lawyer shook his head. "No, Mrs. Acland."
Her chest constricted. "Here? Tonight?"
"Yes."
Because humiliation, she realized dimly, was most efficient when shared.
She scanned the crowd. People were beginning to notice. Whispers threaded through the room, curious, eager. Cameras hovered—not close enough to intrude, but close enough to capture aftermath.
Keith did not move.
He did not come to her.
Lila leaned into him, whispering something. He nodded once.
That was when Jasmine understood.
This was intentional.
She crossed the ballroom.
Each step felt heavier than the last. She was suddenly aware of her body—of how visible she was, how alone.
"Keith," she said.
He excused himself from the group reluctantly, as though interrupted.
"Is this necessary?" he asked quietly.
She held up the papers. Her hands were no longer steady.
"You tell me."
His eyes dropped to the documents for half a second. Then lifted.
"We're done," he said. Flat. Final. "Dragging this out isn't your style."
Her breath caught. "We were supposed to talk."
"We did," he replied. "You just didn't listen."
The words landed harder than any shout.
A few people nearby slowed, pretending not to listen.
"Why now?" Jasmine asked.
"Because tonight confirms alignment," Keith said. "The board is here. Investors are here. It's clean."
Clean.
She swallowed hard. "You couldn't even look at me first?"
He sighed, irritation flickering across his face. "Don't make a scene."
A soft laugh escaped her before she could stop it—thin, cracked. "A scene? You served me divorce papers in front of half the city."
Lila stepped closer, her tone mild, poisonous. "Jasmine, this isn't the place."
Jasmine turned to her slowly. "And what is your place?"
Lila smiled, unbothered. "Beside him."
The room seemed to tilt.
Jasmine looked back at Keith.
"You let her speak for you?"
Keith did not deny it.
The silence answered instead.
Something inside Jasmine fractured.
She looked down at the final page.
Keith's signature was already there.
Neat. Confident.
Done.
The lawyer stepped forward with a pen.
Her fingers trembled as she took it.
"Jasmine," Keith said quietly, "sign it. We'll handle the rest privately."
Privately.
After this.
She laughed again, sharper this time. People were openly watching now.
"You don't get to decide what's private anymore," she said.
Her vision blurred.
For one wild second, she wanted to scream.
To tell them.
To say it.
Her hand pressed unconsciously to her stomach again.
Keith noticed.
His gaze sharpened. "What are you doing?"
Her breath hitched. "I—"
He leaned in, voice low, dangerous. "Don't."
The warning was clear.
Her mouth closed.
The room held its breath.
Jasmine signed.
The pen scratched loudly against paper—each stroke a surrender witnessed by strangers.
She handed the documents back.
"There," she said. Her voice was hollow. "Congratulations."
Keith's jaw tightened. "You're being emotional."
That was when something in her finally broke free of restraint.
She reached for a microphone from a passing waiter.
"May I have your attention," Jasmine said.
The room froze.
Keith's eyes widened. "Jasmine."
She smiled faintly. "Enjoy the evening," she told the crowd. "The charity auction will proceed as planned."
She set the microphone down and turned away.
Behind her, the whispers exploded.
She walked out without looking back.
Outside, the night air cut into her lungs. She barely made it to the car before her knees buckled.
Inside, she pressed a shaking hand over her abdomen and finally let the tears fall—silent, furious, unstoppable.
Her phone vibrated.
Keith: Don't do anything stupid.
She stared at the message.
Then deleted it.
As the car pulled away, Jasmine closed her eyes.
They thought this was the end.
They had no idea what she had just been forced to swallow.
And they had no idea what it would cost them when the truth finally came out.