“Yes,” I said, keeping my hand on the edge of the door. “They just went down.”

He nodded, his shoulders dropping slightly as he let out a long breath.

“Can I come in?” he asked. “Just for a moment.”

I stepped aside, leaving enough space for him to pass without touching me.

He walked into the studio, his eyes scanning the familiar cluttered space.

He stopped by my large easel, where an eighteenth-century landscape was pinned down for cleaning.

“I am sorry to show up like this,” he said, turning to face me. “But everything has fractured.”

“What happened, Jonathan?” I asked, leaning against the workbench.

“I went back to the penthouse,” he said, his voice tightening. “I had Benjamin prepare the papers this afternoon.”

He took off his coat and draped it over the back of a wooden chair.

His hands were clenched into tight fists, his knuckles white.

“I told Rebecca I want a divorce,” he said.

The words hung in the quiet room, heavy and cold.

“She knew it was coming, didn’t she?” I asked.