Chapter 11
I wake up and, no surprise, not even for a second do I forget.
There’s no blissful, blurry moment of disoriented peace.
No “where am I?” fog. Just boom, straight into the goddamn visual.
Her legs around his waist. His hand on her hip.
That look on his face. Like he was enjoying himself.
Like he wasn’t dismantling the last shreds of my reality one thrust at a time.
Even in my sleep, they haunted me. Dreams full of sheets and sweat and the sound of my own scream. Honestly? If I believed in exorcisms, I’d hire one for my subconscious.
Last night, right before Hannah left, she asked, “Now what?” And I knew. Oh, I knew.
Now, it’s revenge.
Not the messy, dramatic kind that ends in a mugshot and a Netflix documentary, tempting as that is.
No, this is the cold, calculating, strategic kind.
The kind that leaves no fingerprints but absolutely devastates.
Because he doesn’t have brothers, so revenge sex is out.
And his father? God, Judge Miller is practically my dad.
Too kind. Too decent. Too disappointed in his son already to weaponize like that.
Although the idea of sending him the video has crossed my mind. Twice .
So yeah. No blunt-force vengeance. This will be surgical.
Because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, sure, but that’s such a small fury. So unimaginative. So basic. What I’m about to do will make hell look like a charming Airbnb.
And it starts today. With Lorna Bishop.
Lorna is a friend from law school, but calling her just a “friend” is like calling Beyoncé “a singer.” She’s a goddamn force. While I nerded out over contracts and mergers, Lorna went full gladiator. Divorce law. Specializing in high-conflict, high-stakes, scorched-earth separation.
Her origin story? Her dad left her mom for his twenty-two-year-old secretary and kicked them both out of the house they paid for. Lorna and her mother spent months bouncing between shitty rentals while he and his slimeball attorney made it rain settlement loopholes.
So yeah, if anyone knows how to burn a cheating bastard to the ground legally, it’s her.
And today at ten, I’ve got an appointment.
I sit up, stretch, and wince at the hangover that feels like it’s trying to climb out of my skull. Wine. So much wine. But I still manage a smile. Crooked, bitter, satisfied .
Time to put on a killer outfit, sip a gallon of water, and ruin a man with nothing but a signed affidavit and a well-timed deposition. Let’s fucking go.
I get up like a woman on a mission. Hungover, heartbroken, but weirdly laser-focused. Revenge is apparently a hell of a cure for emotional devastation. Better than therapy. Or Xanax. Or wine.
My body’s still puffy with grief and alcohol, but I chug two glasses of water like I’m prepping for battle, then scarf down a slice of leftover pizza. Cold, greasy, perfect. I want to go for a run, burn the rage off with sweat and motion, but I don’t have time. The warpath doesn’t wait.
So, I shower. Dress. Black pants, sharp blazer, boots that say you will respect me or bleed trying. Hair pulled back. Lipstick like a warning label. Then I leave.
Lorna’s office is downtown, one of those modern, boutique law firms with glass walls, reclaimed wood, and probably a therapy dog in the breakroom. I show up twenty minutes early because I am that level of prepared and that unwilling to give myself time to chicken out. Or spiral.
The receptionist greets me like I belong here, which is probably the first time today I don’t feel like a walking disaster. She points me to Lorna’s office, and as I walk down the quiet, sunlit hallway, my boots tap like a countdown. Each step says: you messed with the wrong woman.
And then I see her.
Lorna Bishop.
She’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her corner office like she owns the skyline. Petite, poised, and beautiful in that utterly terrifying way. Like if Olivia Pope and a Bond villain had a baby and raised her on feminist theory and vengeance.
Her blazer is white. Crisp. Immaculate. Not a single wrinkle dares show up on her person.
Her hair is slicked back in a bun that could cut glass, and when she turns to look at me, her eyes are calm and assessing.
Not cold. Just measured. Like she’s already ten steps into the case I haven’t even presented yet.
I haven’t seen Lorna Bishop in years.
We were inseparable in law school. Sweat, caffeine, and ambition stitched us together like wartime sisters.
But life, as it always does, carved us into separate shapes.
She went east coast; I stayed in Midwest. She chased divorce law like it owed her something, and I went corporate.
Contracts, paperwork, power suits. We texted on birthdays.
Sent memes when we remembered. Nothing deep. Nothing lasting.
Until now .
She’s standing across from me, framed by glass and skyline, looking exactly like the kind of woman you hire when you want to walk into court and win so hard your ex-cries blood. I don’t know if I want to cry or clap.
“Leni,” she says, with a hint of real surprise under all that sleek composure. “God, how long has it been?” I manage something that’s technically a smile, even though everything in me feels splintered and brittle. “Too long.”
We both know that’s true. The only reason my friendship with Hannah survived all these years is because our husbands were friends. Couple friends. Dinner-party friends. Lorna? We barely know each other now.
Which means she has no idea what I’m about to drop on her.
I sit. The chair’s too soft. My bones want something harder, something more appropriate for the kind of pain I’m holding. Lorna sits too, folding one perfect leg over the other, eyes scanning me like I’m a puzzle that’s missing too many edge pieces.
“I have a situation,” I start. Understatement of the year. “And I need a lawyer who isn’t afraid of fire.”
Her brows lift just slightly. “You got married before graduation, right?” “I did.” My voice cracks a little. “To a cheating, lying excuse for a man who apparently thinks wedding vows come with an expiration date. ”
“Okay…” She leans in. “How bad are we talking? One-night stand? Co-worker? Someone I can sue and destroy publicly?”
I laugh, sharp and joyless. “Worse. My sister.”
The silence between us stretches so taut I think I might snap with it. Then: “Oh, shit.” “Yeah.” “Your sister?” “Keira. Nineteen. Can’t even drive a car. Still lives at home. That sister.”
Lorna whistles low under her breath and leans back in her chair.
“Jesus.” “It gets better. I caught them. In bed. In my bed. In our house. And I have it on video.” “Wait.” She sits up straighter.
“You recorded it?” “Not intentionally. Well. Kind of intentionally. I just- I was in shock. Hans told me to get proof.” She looks confused.
“Who is Hans?” “He’s this bartender at Chucky’s.
You remember Chucky’s.” She nods. “Anyway, he told me this plan on how I can know for certain if my husband’s a cheater, and that I should get proof if I do.
” She shakes her head slowly, still staring like I’ve grown a second, flaming head.
“Can you tell me this plan?” “Well!” I sit up straighter, because if there’s one thing I still have, it’s theatrical flair.
“I told Mike I was going out of town. Like, yoga retreat, full excuse, very convincing. I even packed a little overnight bag to sell the lie.” Lorna lifts a brow, clearly intrigued.
“Okay…” “But I never left.” I grin, wide and sharp, like the Joker with better hair.
“Instead, I ran some errands, went shopping, bought so many shoes.” She hums. “That’s the kind of therapy I respect.
” “Thank you. So, he gets home, midday, which, weird, right? He’s supposed to be at work.
But I’m at the mall because self-care is still important, even when you’re planning emotional warfare.
And by the time I get home,” I wave dramatically, “I walk into our bedroom and there he is. With Keira. Naked. Entwined. Sweaty. Like it’s a scene from some cursed HBO show no one asked for.
” “Oh my God,” Lorna whispers, but it’s more reverent than horrified.
“I had my phone out before I even realized what I was doing. Not proud of it. Actually, no- I am proud of it. I got the whole damn thing… part of it.” Lorna exhales like she’s watching the end of a crime docuseries.
“Leni. You beautiful, spiralling genius.” “I cried,” I say, voice suddenly quieter.
“Threw things at him, at her. He tried lying but she said it’s been going on since Christmas.
” “And then?” “And then I kicked them out. Him in his boxers, her in a sheet, which, by the way, my sheet. And I tossed his car keys after them. Removed the house key first, of course.” Lorna lets out a bark of laughter.
“Jesus Christ. You really did all that?” “I did. And then I drank an entire bottle of wine on the kitchen floor, texted the evidence to the wrong person- Hannah, not Hans, long story- and spiral-cried into my best friend’s boobs. ”
There’s a long pause as Lorna leans back in her chair, processing.
“You came in hot. Like, Taylor Swift bridge hot.” “Doesn’t matter.
” I wave it off. “Point is, I’ve got proof.
Audio. Visual. Sweat. Moans. The whole devastating, soul-crushing pornographic nightmare.
” “Damn.” She’s not even pretending to be horrified, just impressed.
“You really came to play.” “I want a divorce. And I want to take the one thing he loves, his pride and joy, that godforsaken, fucking house.” She nods once, decisive.
“Then we start today. Tell me about his other assets.”
Something in me finally unclenches. This is why I came. Not just for vengeance. Not just to make him pay. But to sit across from someone who won’t tell me to breathe or calm down or take the high road. Because that road is closed. Under construction. And I’m about to burn the detour to the ground .