Divorce (Livia)

"I want a divorce," she repeats, with more conviction this time. 

Raylen, sitting at his work table in the home office, does not seem surprised. "You're exhausted. The day has been rough and I apologise for that, but let's talk about this in the morning when we're more clear-headed." 

"I am clear-headed!" She cannot hide the indignation in her voice at being treated like a child, and that resentment only undermines her claim. She wishes she had Raylen's steely calmness. 

Or rather, she wishes she were as pathetic as he is. 

"No, you're not. It's been a long day for us both. When morning comes—"

"My mind will not have changed. I am not an impulsive child." 

He looks at her for a while and Livia notices this is the first time today that he is truly seeing and acknowledging her existence. 

It only makes her smile in bitterness.

"I see," he says finally. "I will have my lawyers draft up the divorce papers."

"I don't want much, but I do want custody of the children. I will not budge on that," she says with false bravado. What can an ex-model do against a billionaire?

"Of course. They are more attached to you. But I must insist on visitation rights. At least once a week." 

"..." 

"Do you not believe me?"

"Are you not going to fight? For them? For me?" 

"This is not a game, Livia. We are both adults. I am respecting your decision. I think too highly of you to suspect that you may use divorce as a threat and bargaining chip." 

"Do you not love our children?"

Raylen sighs. "Of course I do. I do not wish to be separated from them either, but they are twins. They should be with each other. They also clearly prefer you. This is what is best for them. I will still provide for you and them. You will not suffer a decline in quality of life." 

Livia is beginning to understand that beneath that handsome, friendly face is a core of ice. It makes her sick to think that she has been sleeping beside a stranger almost every day for the past three years. 

There are nagging questions bubbling in her and, pathetic as she is, she wants to know their answers. 

She moves from the door towards the desk before slowly settling into the chair facing her husband. 

"There are certain things I must know."

"Ask."

"Am I a replacement?"

"No, not at all." 

"No?"

"No. She was very unlike you."

"How so?"

"Well," a wry smile begins appearing on Raylen's face, "she was usually all skin and bones. I don't even consider her petite. She was just scrawny. She also hated being photographed."

Something about his matter-of-factness when talking about his lost love drives another stab into Livia's heart. It seems that he can be affectionate, but that affection never amounts to love or adoration. Nothing can cloud his judgement. Nine years of grief and Delaney is still a scrawny bag of bones in his eyes. It makes Livia wonder how he views her.

"I am," she replies, "not asking about appearances. I know she looks like the reporter. I am asking about personality. Am I like her?" 

"No, absolutely not." 

"Do go on," she prompts when he does not elaborate. 

"You are," he begins slowly, "vivacious and confident. As lively as you are lovely. She had a remarkably poor grip on life. She looked and acted like a ghost." 

"You're being cryptic."

"Well," frustration flashes briefly in his eyes, "it is not easy for me to talk about her." 

"I'm sorry," Livia says instinctively. It is so rare for Raylen to lose his cool that she cannot help but apologise immediately. 

"Well, it's fine. You have some right to know. Her health was always poor." 

"I see," she murmurs, unsure of what else she can say. "My condolences."

Raylen laughs lightly as if she has just said something silly. "It is alright. She has been dead for too long for me to receive more condolences. Well, it is not like I have ever deserved them." 

Livia's mind is whirling again. "Deserved" is a strange word to use. It is a sign of guilt and remorse. Did Raylen play a part in Delaney's death? 

And how can mere affection compete with the enormity of guilt? 

"Can I ask how she died?" 

Raylen grimaced. "You can. She killed herself." 

"W-what?" 

"She drank herself into a stupor, sank into her bathtub, and opened her veins. I found her in a sea of red," he explains with a certain subtle vindication. Almost as if he is glad to finally be able to unleash this image on another person after bearing it alone and in silence for nine years. 

"I'm sorry to hear that." Livia doesn't know what else to say. 

"Well, at least she is not in pain anymore." 

Livia still does not know how to respond to that so a heavy silence hangs between them until Raylen decides to speak again. 

"Like I said, I will have my lawyers draft up the divorce letters. Our prenup agreement is still in effect. However, while your living arrangements may change, they definitely will not worsen. You don't have to worry about that or the children." 

Ah, the prenuptial agreement. Livia signed it without much thought three years ago, naively believing that it was only a formality that her father-in-law was insisting on. After all, she once thought she would never be separated from Raylen.

And yet here they are.

"And I apologise," Raylen continues, "but you must excuse me. I have a guest coming soon."

"A guest? At this hour?"

Her husband has the decency to look a tad apologetic. "Circumstances are unusual." 

"Alright," she replies, getting up. "I'll see myself out." 

As she drifts out of the room and down the corridor, she sees the butler, Mr Leed, escorting the guest, a timid-looking, washed-out girl in her early twenties. 

Why, the mysterious guest is none other than the reporter.