“What’s the condition?” he asked, hope like a child’s in his tone.
I turned and walked upstairs. A minute later I returned holding a document—my hand didn’t shake. It was the mate separation agreement. I opened it to the page he needed to sign and set it between us.
“There’s no need to be mad,” he murmured as if calming a pet. “Alice won’t wear it forever. I’ll give it back after the pup is born.”
He didn’t glance at the contract. He signed. His signature was a clean line, an admission I had expected and dreaded. He smiled at me with practiced warmth. “I’ve been neglectful,” he said. “Go buy something you want. I’ll pay.”
He imagined I wanted comfort items, indulgences. He didn’t know I had already booked the earliest flight home. He didn’t know that the amulet in his hand, the signed paper, and the knowledge of his betrayal were the three things that finally made leaving possible.
I unclasped the moonstone and handed it to him with a face like a mask. He gripped it as though cradling victory. “Don’t worry,” he said, as though convincing himself more than me, “I’ll bring it back.”
“She can wear it for as long as she likes,” I said, voice low. I let him believe the victory was his.
That night I lay awake listening to distant voices and my own breath. In the morning I would leave. This time I wouldn’t hesitate.