When he turns the stack Matthew’s way, I wonder if there is something wrong with me. You’d think after vowing to spend my life with him and tying myself into knots for years as I tried to make it work between us, there would be a tingle of doubt or a twinge of pain as I watch him sign his name on our divorce papers, but all I feel is relief that we can both finally move on.

“That’s it,” Phillip murmurs softly, picking up the stack of papers while looking at me. “Do you want me to make a copy of these for you, or would you just like me to send them to your e-mail?”

“You can e-mail them.” Honestly, what am I going to even do with divorce papers? Frame them and hang them on the wall in my studio as proof that I sucked at being a wife, even though I tried with every single breath I took to make things work and still failed miserably?

“Very well.” He picks up his briefcase and puts the papers back inside it, and I hand him my pen after Matthew passes over his. “Matthew, it was good seeing you.” He stands, and I get up from my chair as well.

“You too, Phillip,” he replies but stays seated, indicating that he plans to stick around after Phillip leaves.

Great.

“Will I see you and Elizabeth tomorrow evening?” I ask as I walk Phillip to the door, and he almost smiles at the mention of his wife.

“We’ll be there. Elizabeth would never miss one of your mother’s parties.”

“I can’t wait to see her.” I adore his wife. She’s flamboyant, funny, and loud to the point of obnoxious. She is also one of the few people who told me that I should chase my dream of becoming an artist—without even knowing if I had any real potential.

Her belief was, if I believed in my talent, then I was talented, and that is something I’ve carried with me every single day since.

Opening the door, I step back to allow him room to leave. “Thank you for coming today.”

“You’re welcome, and I’ll have Tammy get a copy of these papers e-mailed over to you as soon as I file them.”

“Sounds good. Have a good evening.”

“You as well.” He dips his chin and walks out.

Closing the door, I drag in a breath before I turn back around to face Matthew, who is now standing with his hip pressed into the edge of the table and his arms crossed over his chest. I’d like to claim that I don’t still think he’s good-looking, but with dark hair, strong, elegant features, and an ever-present tan thanks to his Italian heritage, there is no denying that he is a very attractive man.

“How do you feel?” he asks softly.