27. 27 #2
“They look like ankle-snapping death traps.”
“They’re also one thousand dollars and the most reliable heel I have.”
Michael glared. “You’ll kill us both. Or break a leg getting out of the car, let alone be able to drive.”
“Watch me, Hotshot.”
He muttered something under his breath, threw his hands in the air, and walked out to the passenger side like I’d sentenced him to death.
I grinned. Just a little.
We’re about an hour out. The sky is stretched dusky and low over the road ahead. We stopped at a servo because Michael had to use the bathroom and then insisted on grabbing sustenance.
Surprisingly, the car’s been fine so far. It only took me a minute or two to figure out that the wipers and indicators were on opposite sides, and don’t even get me started on the fact that I have to manually wind the window up. Full old school.
Michael drums his fingers against his thigh, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the tyres on asphalt. I glance sideways at him. “Don’t you have a shop to run? Won’t people ask where you are?”
“Nah,” he replies easily. “Just sent Harrison a text to tell Joe.”
“Joe… your Dad ? ” I ask, still unsure where the lines blur between friends and family in this town.
“Uh, yeah. Something like that.”
His tone is too nonchalant, too vague, and it sparks something restless in my chest. Something like that?
What does that even mean? My brain starts spiralling, running through scenarios I have no right to imagine—complicated family dynamics, patched-over pain, the kind of history people don’t talk about out loud.
“So they just allow you to go on a drive to Sydney with a stranger?” The word stranger lands hard, even though I say it on a shrug. It’s not entirely true.
He turns his head toward me. “First of all, I’m a big boy. I can handle myself. And secondly, you’re not a stranger to me, Zoe. I know it. Everyone knows it.”
His voice is steady, maybe too steady. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “But just not me, right?”
“I dunno. You tell me.” His gaze lingers. I can feel it tugging at me, steady and patient. I flick my eyes to his just for a second, but it’s too much.
I shift forward and reach for the radio dial. “What music shall we listen to?” I mumble the question.
Static crackles, followed by some slow indie track that does nothing to settle the nerves twisting low in my stomach. Michael stretches out in his seat. “Don’t avoid the question.”
“I’m not,” I lie, fiddling with the volume. “I’m just trying to survive the next two hours without being grilled.”
“I haven’t even started yet.”
I shoot him a look. “That’s not reassuring.”
He laughs, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re tightly wound today, Freckles.”
Poker face. Game face. Whatever the hell kind of face I’m supposed to have on when walking into a meeting to fight for my life, I put it on. I smooth my skirt, and Michael opens the door for me.
I’d parked just off York Street, right near the law offices Jeff booked for our meeting.
The moment my heel hit the pavement, Michael was there, coming around to intercept me with a look that told me he’d been waiting for this moment since I told him I didn’t want backup.
He tilts his head at me. “Do you want me to come in?”
“No. I’ll be fine,” I say, firmly.
His hands lift in surrender, but there’s no bite in his expression. “Alright. I’ll be out here.”
The boardroom is too white, too pristine, too polished to be anything but unnerving.
Jeff sits beside me, calm and composed, folder in hand.
Liam’s lawyer—a man who looks too smug to be legally sound—sits across from us, and next to him, Liam.
Looking as relaxed as if we were grabbing brunch.
Tan skin. Rolex. That expensive cologne that I used to love, which now makes my skin itch.
The negotiation begins the way these things always do—pleasantries, false smiles, and a rundown of “proposed settlements.”
Liam wants the apartment, claiming I don’t need it since I’ve been in Wattle Creek. Jeff flips calmly through his papers. “Zoe contributed to the mortgage. Her name is on the loan.”
Liam scoffs. “This is ridiculous.”
The lawyer beside him nods. “My client is willing to buy out Ms. De Luca’s share.”
“Not for the amount you’ve offered,” Jeff counters. “That’s less than half the market value.”
They argue. Back and forth. Cold facts thrown like knives. I don’t speak. Not yet. My hands stay clasped under the table, nails digging into my palm. Until Liam looks at me.
“You’re really doing this?” he asks. “Tearing everything apart over what, pride?”
“No,” I say, voice steady. “Over survival.”
His mouth twitches. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Jeff steps in, voice smooth and even, offering figures, dates, statements. Pages of proof spread out on the table between us. Evidence that I didn’t fabricate this life. That I wasn’t just Liam’s accessory. That I worked, contributed, endured. I built something. Even if it’s in ruins now
“The affidavits outline the timeline of events,” he says, sliding a folder across the polished table.
“Including the infidelity, the twelve-month separation while both parties remained under the same roof, and the eventual emotional and physical breakdown of the marriage. There was no intimacy, no financial interdependence, and no continued relationship. They also clearly state the reasons Ms. De Luca remained in the property during that time.”
Liam barely glances at the documents. His lip curls as he leans back in the leather chair, fingers drumming against the table. “She’s fucking lying. This is bullshit. Amanda means nothing,” he sneers. “She was just a fuck. Nothing else.”
I scoff, the sound sharp and unfiltered. Because if the way he speaks about women isn’t enough to go running, I don’t know what is. No remorse. No shame. Just venom wrapped in entitlement.
Jeff calmly turns the papers around. “We have receipts. Testimony. Witnesses. She’s not lying.”
More back-and-forth. More technicalities.
Jeff and Liam’s lawyer volley proposals and counter-proposals until we finally arrive at a tentative agreement.
Liam will buy me out of the apartment. I’ll take what I’m owed and walk away.
Once the documents are drawn up and signed, the divorce can be finalised.
But of course, he can’t just let it end.
Not without twisting the knife.
“I’m not signing shit,” he mutters, voice low. “Not until we have a proper conversation.”
A proper conversation? My laugh is dry and humourless.
We haven’t had a proper conversation since I left, and even that night?
I wouldn’t call it talking. It was more like shouting and silence, and slamming doors.
But hey, I guess there’s no better place to finally unpack the mess than a table surrounded by lawyers and legal pads.
“You want a conversation?” My voice cracks through the room like a whip. “After all the lies? Cheating? The manipulation? You want to sit down and chat like we’re equals now?”
Liam’s mouth opens, but I don’t give him the space to speak.
“You gaslit me for years. Bent the truth until I couldn’t recognise myself. Made me feel like I was going insane while you played house with anyone who’d look your way. And now you want answers?”
“I want to know why you’re throwing all of this away,” he snaps.
I laugh. It’s cold and bitter. A sound that doesn’t belong to the girl who once cried over him. “Fuck you. Throwing it away? I’m having a do-over. Throwing away rubbish is more like it. There’s a difference.”
His jaw tics. His lawyer glances down at his notes, suddenly very interested in anything but this conversation. I push out of my chair, stepping right into Liam’s space. I don’t care if it’s unprofessional. I don’t care if the lawyers think I’m unhinged.
“You don’t fucking own me,” I growl, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You never fucking did.”
He moves to grab my wrist, an action I wouldn’t always see coming. But I see it now. I dodge him, stepping back like my body knew the move before I did. Rage blazes in my chest, all-consuming. “Don’t you fucking touch me. Ever again.”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. They rise, hot and fast, but I blink them away. Force them back down into the pit he carved out in me. Because he doesn’t get to see me cry.
Jeff stands abruptly, palm hitting the table with a thud that startles the silence.
“I think we end this here,” he says, voice clipped but calm, laced with steel. “My client needs time away from this environment. As you can clearly see, Mr. De Luca’s presence is triggering and inappropriate at this stage of negotiation.”
Liam leans back, all smug and infuriating. But I’m already turning. Done. I let him sit with it. Let him rot in the silence I leave behind. Because I’m not the girl he broke. I’m the woman who got back up. And this is me walking out on my own damn terms.
My heels click against the tiled floor as I walk out. My chest tightens, and my breathing becomes shallow. The fire in my veins from moments ago now flickers into exhaustion. I swing the door open, and as soon as I step into the long hallway, I spot Michael.
Already standing. Waiting for me.
He pushes off the wall the second our eyes meet. His steps are fast but measured, closing the distance in a heartbeat. One hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly against my cheekbone, tracing the edge of my jaw as his gentle eyes search mine.
“Did he touch you?” His voice is low, rougher than usual. “Your eyes are red.”
I force a shallow breath. My throat aches. “No. I’m fine. Just… please. I need to go.”
Something shifts in his expression, but he doesn’t press.
He nods once, jaw tight, and turns without another word.
We walk to the car, his stride easy, mine slower, heavier.
He reaches it first and swings the passenger door open for me.
It’s such a simple thing, barely a second of effort, but it hits me in the chest so hard I almost want to cry.
I slide in, limbs rigid, lungs still burning with everything I didn’t say.
Michael doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t speak.
Just gets behind the wheel, starts the car, and drives. And this time, I don’t argue.