Eighteen
Harper
Walking into Clara's conference room feels vaguely like discovering your favourite primary school teacher moonlights as an assassin.
Her office is all soft lamps, bookshelves, plants that somehow remain alive despite her eighty-hour work weeks, and a jar of chocolates that mysteriously refills itself every Monday.
This room? This room looks like it was designed to make people confess to tax fraud.
The walls are bare except for a framed certificate and a clock that ticks just loudly enough to remind you time is passing.
The table is long enough that it feels less like we're having a conversation and more like we're negotiating peace between rival countries.
No photos. No plants. No cheerful cushions. Just polished timber, four glasses of water, and enough empty space to make everyone feel slightly exposed. I glance sideways at Clara.
She's somehow exactly the same woman who made me a cup of tea in her office last week. Now she's sitting perfectly straight beside me, legal pad open, expression calm enough to make seasoned criminals reconsider their life choices.
It's honestly a little terrifying.
Across from us sits Ethan.
And… Huh. He looks… Older. Not dramatically.
Just… worn around the edges. He hasn't shaved.
There's a permanent crease between his eyebrows I don't remember being there.
His shirt is still perfectly pressed because, of course it is.
Pale blue. The same colour he always wore whenever he wanted people to think he had his life together.
Parent-teacher interviews. Work presentations. Family photos.
Apparently divorce mediation too. Beside him sits his lawyer. I've met this man enough times now that I really should know his name. I don't. In my head he'll forever be The Blazer, partly because he exclusively wears navy jackets and partly because he possesses all the personality of one.
If you asked AI to generate "middle-aged divorce lawyer," you'd get this man. Clara folds her hands on the table.
"So… was traffic okay?" It's the kind of question everyone knows exists purely because lawyers aren't legally allowed to begin meetings with, 'Right then, let's divide your lives into piles.'
"Yeah," Ethan says quietly. "It wasn't too bad." The Blazer nods once, contributing absolutely nothing to the conversation.
I take a sip of water. It's room temperature. Naturally. Nobody came here expecting refreshments.
The Blazer clears his throat. Here we go. He opens his folder with unnecessary ceremony before adjusting his glasses.
"As discussed in previous correspondence, our client's position remains largely unchanged." Of course it does.
"Mr Bennett is prepared to forgo any claim over the marital home and accepts the proposed superannuation division."
I nod once. Fine.
"…However…"
There's always a however.
"…our client maintains that Ms Bennett's present and future earnings were materially enhanced through the stability and support provided during the marriage. As such, he seeks an ongoing share of future royalty income."
I actually look at Ethan this time. He's avoiding my eyes. Funny. He never had trouble looking at me while he lied. A tiny, completely inappropriate part of my brain wonders whether I should thank him.
After all… Without the affair, I probably wouldn't have my next bestseller. Clara doesn't even blink. She simply turns a page in her notebook.
"Ms Bennett's position remains unchanged."
Her voice is calm. Professional. Absolutely lethal.
"Harper is prepared to waive any entitlement to ongoing spousal maintenance, provided Mr Bennett withdraws all claims to her intellectual property, publishing business and future royalties."
The Blazer opens his mouth. Clara continues anyway.
"There is no evidence Mr Bennett materially contributed to the conception, drafting, editing, publication, marketing or ongoing management of Ms Bennett's novels."
She finally looks up.
"If your client wishes to pursue future royalty entitlement through the Court, we're perfectly comfortable allowing a judge to determine that issue."
Another pause. Then, with the smallest, politest smile imaginable…
"I don't believe he'll enjoy the outcome."
I almost laugh. Not because it's funny. Because watching Clara professionally dismantle someone's argument is strangely therapeutic. I have an almost overwhelming urge to hug her, sadly I think that would be more traumatising to Clara than a welcomed interaction.
Ethan finally looks at me.
For the first time since walking into the room… He looks worried.
The Blazer clears his throat again.
"We've reviewed the documentation. There is precedent…"
"There is," Clara agrees before he can gather momentum. "Just not in this jurisdiction."
She folds her hands neatly on the table.
"And certainly not where the intellectual property was created solely by one party."
The Blazer opens his mouth. Clara keeps going.
"Harper conceived, wrote, edited, marketed and published every title independently of her husband. Her business records reflect that. So do the financial records. So does the evidence regarding domestic responsibilities during the marriage."
She smiles. Politely.
"There is simply no legal basis for ongoing royalty entitlement."
Silence. I almost feel sorry for The Blazer. Almost. He adjusts his glasses instead.
"In that case…" he says carefully. "Perhaps we can resolve the matter today."
He turns and whispers to Ethan, receiving a slight shake of his head before turning back to us with a sigh and dropping shoulders.
"Mr Bennett is not willing to drop the claim.”
Clara turns towards me. I look at Ethan. He isn't looking at me anymore. Instead, he's studying the grain of the conference table like it contains the answers to the universe.
I wonder if he's thinking about the last thirteen years. I wonder if he's thinking about Tessa. I wonder if he's thinking about the fact he's about to walk away from the life we spent over a decade building.
Or… Maybe he's just wondering what's for lunch. Who knows anymore? I flatten my hand against the table.
"I wrote those books."
My voice surprises even me in its harsh tone.
"I wrote them after Leo went to bed." I look directly at Ethan.
"I wrote them before work."
"On weekends."
"On holidays."
"When I was exhausted."
"When I was sick."
"When you were working away."
"I built that career."
A lump forms in my throat.
"I built it while raising our son." While holding us together. But I don't say the last part out loud.
"I'm not giving it away."
Nobody speaks. Not even The Blazer. Ethan finally lifts his head. For a second I think he's going to argue. Defend himself. Blame me. Something. Instead… He sighs. It's the kind of sigh people make when they realise they've already lost.
"Fine."
Just… Fine. The single word somehow feels heavier than the last three months combined.
The Blazer nods once and quietly replaces the documents.
"I'll amend the agreement."
A few minutes later the new paperwork is sitting in front of me.
Clara leans closer.
"So?"
I look down at the signature line.
This is it. No more mediation. No more lawyers. No more emails arguing over furniture neither of us even wanted. No more pretending there was something left to save. Clara lowers her voice.
"I think this is the right decision."
"So do I."
She hands me a pen. A completely ordinary blue Bic. Funny. You'd think ending a marriage would require something more ceremonial. A fountain pen. A quill. A drop of blood.
Instead… Bic.
I sign my name. Thirteen years. Reduced to a signature on a page.
Clara signs beside mine. The paperwork slides across the table.
Ethan picks up the pen. His hand hesitates.
Just for a fraction of a second. Then he signs.
I watch his handwriting. Exactly the same as it's always been.
Perfect little curl on his t. The same handwriting that filled birthday cards. Love notes. Our marriage certificate.
Now… Our divorce papers. The Blazer gathers everything into his folder.
"We'll lodge these this afternoon."
He stands first. Shakes Clara's hand. Then mine. Ethan doesn't. He simply picks up his folder and walks towards the door. Halfway there he pauses.
For one ridiculous second… I think he's going to say something.
Sorry. Goodbye. Anything. He doesn't. The door closes quietly behind him. And that's it. No dramatic ending. No final argument. No music swelling in the background. Clara reaches across and squeezes my hand.
"Congratulations." I blink at her dumbly and she smiles in return.
"You survived him."
I laugh. It's small. Slightly watery. But it's real.
"I suppose I did." She stands.
"So…" She pauses dramatically. "Go live your life."
I look down at the now-empty space where the paperwork had been sitting. Then I pick up my handbag. Straighten my shoulders. And walk out of the conference room. This time… I don't look back.
***
By eight-thirty, the house has gone quiet.
Well… As quiet as a house can be when the fridge has decided to make noises that suggest it's approaching the end of its natural life and somebody's dog three streets over is passionately objecting to the existence of the moon.
Leo went to bed without much fuss tonight. No requests for one more chapter. No negotiations over bedtime. Just a hug, a kiss on my cheek and…
"Don't forget to tell me if the baby starts kicking."
"I won't."
Satisfied, he'd disappeared into his room. Now his school bag sits exactly where he abandoned it in the middle of the hallway, presenting itself as both a tripping hazard and a parenting opportunity I'll probably ignore until tomorrow morning.
Some battles aren't worth fighting. I wrap both hands around my mug. The tea went cold at least an hour ago. Story of my life. My laptop sits open on the kitchen counter. An email from Clara waits patiently on the screen.
I'll file the final documents first thing tomorrow morning. Congratulations, Harper. You're officially free.