The Fine Print
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 1,187
Naya’s fingers curled tightly around the divorce papers, the crisp edges pressing into her skin. The weight of them felt heavier than it should have, as if they carried the full burden of the past two years. She could feel the sting of the paper against her palm, sharp and unyielding—much like the reality she had spent too long ignoring.
The courtroom was cold—too cold—but maybe that was fitting. A place like this wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for endings. Contracts dissolved. Assets divided. Promises reduced to legal jargon and signatures on a page.
She inhaled slowly, resisting the urge to rub her arms for warmth. The fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly above her, casting a harsh glow over the polished mahogany table that separated her from the man who had once vowed to love her.
Across from her, Jordan sat with the same unshaken confidence that had once drawn her in. His suit was crisp, tailored to perfection, the dark fabric smooth as if not even the weight of a failed marriage could wrinkle it. His posture was relaxed, one arm draped over the chair, his fingers tapping idly against the table as if he were merely waiting for a business proposal to be finalized.
Maybe, for him, that’s all this had ever been.
Naya’s stomach twisted, but she kept her face impassive. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
Her lawyer cleared his throat, his voice steady and deliberate. “Ms. Jenkins is requesting full control of her assets and a clean break—no financial ties.”
For the first time, Jordan hesitated. It was subtle—the briefest tightening of his jaw, the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Surprise? Annoyance? Maybe even the first stirrings of regret.
Good.
Naya had spent too much time doubting herself, too many nights wondering if she had misread the signs, if she had overreacted, if maybe—just maybe—he had loved her after all.
But today?
Today, she wasn’t the one being played.
Two years ago, she had believed in forever.
Jordan had swept her off her feet with an ease that felt effortless, as if loving her required no thought, no hesitation—only instinct. He had known exactly what to say, exactly how to look at her, exactly when to touch her in a way that made her feel special, chosen. Like fate had led her to him.
Weekend trips to Miami, candlelit dinners at rooftop restaurants, whispered promises beneath city lights—each moment had been carefully curated, each grand gesture leaving her breathless. She had thought it was love.
She had thought he was love.
When he proposed, slipping the ring onto her finger with a dazzling smile, she had felt safe. Secure in the knowledge that she was stepping into a lifetime of partnership. She had said yes, not just to the man in front of her, but to the future she thought they were building together.
But real love wasn’t conditional.
Real love didn’t come with fine print.
The red flags had been there, small but insistent, disguised as care.
Merging finances will make things easier, Naya. Trust me.
You don’t have to worry about the details—I’ve got it handled.
We’re a team, we're all we have. What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is ours.
Except ours had always meant his.
At first, it had been little things. He would call the shots on where they lived, how they budgeted, which investments made “the most sense.” He had framed it as efficiency, a way to ensure they were on the same page financially. She had wanted to believe him.
Then, after her mother passed and she inherited the estate, the shift had been subtle—but undeniable.
Jordan had stopped asking. He made decisions without her input. He signed documents without her seeing them first. She would find out about transactions after the fact—her name attached to things she had never approved.
The mortgage had been the final straw. A house bought under her name, without her knowledge, yet somehow Jordan had control over the paperwork. When she had discovered it, nausea had twisted in her gut.
She had confronted him, heart pounding, the accusations flying out before she could stop them.
Jordan had barely looked up from his laptop, sighing as he rubbed his temples. “Naya, don’t be dramatic. This is how marriage works.”
No remorse. No concern. No attempt to reassure her that she had misunderstood.
Just a quiet, matter-of-fact confirmation that to him, marriage wasn’t about love. It was strategy.
And now that she was pulling out of the deal?
He didn’t even seem surprised.
Naya forced herself back to the present.
She could feel the weight of the divorce papers pressing into her palms, the thick stack of legal documents holding the finality of everything she had endured. Two years of deception, of manipulation, of watching herself become smaller while Jordan took up more space. But now, the weight wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t crushing her anymore.
It was just there. A fact. A reminder of what she had survived.
She inhaled slowly, steadying herself as she lifted her gaze to meet Jordan’s. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. But she knew that look—she had seen it before. It was the same one he had worn whenever he was about to convince her, persuade her, turn the situation in his favor. The same quiet confidence that had once made her believe he was right, that she was overreacting, that she just needed to trust him.
But she wasn’t that woman anymore.
Jordan leaned forward, lowering his voice like this was some intimate negotiation instead of the end of a marriage. “Naya, be reasonable. We built a life together.”
She exhaled softly, tilting her head. She didn’t need to raise her voice. She didn’t need to argue. The truth was simple.
“No,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I built a life. You just lived off it.”
A flicker of something passed through his expression. Annoyance? Resentment? For the first time, his control was slipping, and Naya saw it in the way his fingers tightened around the pen.
There it is.
Control had always been his currency, the foundation of his power. He had spent years making sure she felt dependent on him, uncertain without him. He had always been the one holding the pen, the one making the decisions.
But now?
He was bankrupt.
Her lawyer slid the final document across the table. “Sign, and we can all move on.”
Jordan hesitated. His fingers flexed around the pen, his jaw tightening just slightly. The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of his stalled power. This wasn’t how he had planned things to go.
Naya could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. He had expected resistance, sure, but he had also expected her to waver. To falter. To let the past cloud her judgment just long enough for him to find a new angle, a new way to pull her back in.
But Naya?
She had already decided.
She wasn’t his transaction anymore.
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