“You didn’t have to,” he said. “I still own the lease on this building, Emily.”

He took another step, his leather soles scraping against the grit on the floor.

“I could have had the locks changed weeks ago,” he added.

“But you wanted to see what I would do first,” I said.

“Naturally,” he said.

He turned his back to me, examining a large canvas near the brick wall.

The painting was mostly dark grays and stark whites, depicting a hollowed-out high-rise.

“Is this supposed to be the penthouse?” he asked.

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” I said.

He stepped closer to the canvas, almost touching the thick impasto.

“It lacks perspective,” he murmured. “And gratitude.”

He turned back to me, his expression hardening.

“You’ve been telling people we are divorcing,” he said.

“We are,” I said.

“That is a decision we make together,” he said. “Not something you announce to the gallery owners of River North.”

I kept my breathing steady.

The air in the studio was cold, smelling of old timber and wet brick.

“The papers were served to your office on Tuesday,” I said.