"Forest, we should end this contract—now." My thumb hovered over the red icon and the line stayed steady. Midnight in my apartment smelled like takeout and cold coffee. The city below hummed. My voice did not shake. "You're serious?" he asked. His voice was flat, practiced, the kind that had ended careers before lunch. "Yes." I pressed the record app with my other thumb. "We should divorce. This arrangement is over." Silence filled the phone for two beats. Then he said, "You'll burn bridges, Imelda." "I know how to build new ones," I said. "Send the termination forms. No press spin. No staged statement. No 'mutual decision'. End it honestly." He let out a short, humorless sound. "You think you can walk away from StreamWave? Do you understand what that means for your next ten years?" "I understand it means I'll stop letting people drag my life into their ratings," I said. "Forest, I won't be used as property. Not by contract, not by cameras." "You're risking yourself," he said. "You were never one of the top three for a reason." "I was never yours," I replied. He paused. "Fine. Sign the papers. We'll settle the rest." His tone suggested he already had a template ready. He always had a template ready. "Make this public," I said. "What?" "I want the record to be clear. If you're going to erase me, I want the world to see you do it." Another pause