Jason’s eyes darted frantically between the imposing attorney and my stoic face.
I hooked my index finger over the edge of their pathetic divorce draft and dragged it back to my side of the table. I flipped to the final page and looked the man I had vowed to love until death squarely in the eye.
“You want a dissolution? Fine,” I whispered, my voice dripping with absolute zero cold. “But before my pen touches this paper, we are going to recalculate every stolen cent, audit every fraudulent document, and expose every single liability you prayed I was too stupid to find.”
Chapter 3: Demolition of the Bridge
The oxygen at the table evaporated the second Daniel took his seat. The ambient noise of the café—the hiss of the espresso machine, the clatter of ceramic spoons—faded into a dull hum, replaced entirely by the ragged, accelerating rhythm of Allison’s breathing. Her meticulously crafted mask of sweet resignation had cracked, exposing tight, panicked lines around her eyes.
Jason’s spine went rigid. The hand that had been arrogantly drumming the table was now clenched into a white-knuckled fist. The index finger twitched—a nervous tell I had observed a hundred times when he was caught in a minor lie. Now, he was caught in a catastrophic one.
Daniel unclasped his briefcase, extracting a sleek, tabbed folder. He didn’t acknowledge the opposition immediately. He turned to me, his tone strictly professional.
“Miss Catherine, for the record, I am here at your retained request, functioning as your legal counsel to protect your assets and establish the parameters of this separation. Do I have your authorization to proceed?”
“You have full authorization, Daniel,” I confirmed.
Only then did Daniel shift his glacial gaze to my husband. “I am Daniel Henshaw. If you have concluded that this marriage is irreparably broken, I strongly advise that all subsequent dialogue remains confined to verified data, financial ledgers, and legal precedent. Emotional posturing will only waste billable hours.”
Jason let out a hollow, defensive scoff. “Wow. You really choreographed this, Catherine. You’re a lot more paranoid than I gave you credit for.”
“If I hadn’t run a risk assessment,” I replied, my voice steady, “I would have already signed a contract giving you half of a portfolio that you never contributed a dime to.”
