Chapter 1
Chapter one
Silent Night, Mediator Fright
November – Present time
Miranda
The mediator’s office smells faintly of damp carpet and nerves. There’s a bowl of dusty boiled sweets on the table and a fake orchid wilting in the corner. Someone’s tried very hard to make the place feel calm. It hasn’t worked.
Sim-Sim’s already here. He stands when I walk in, which is pointless but typical. His lawyer’s beside him—a lean man in a navy suit with expensive glasses and the air of someone who has made a fortune out of the misery of others.
Claire, the mediator, offers a warm, over-rehearsed smile and introduces everyone, even though we’ve all met before. Maybe it’s for show. Maybe it’s protocol. Or maybe she just can’t tell we’d all rather be anywhere else.
On my side of the table is Renata. My solicitor. Kind, efficient, sharp as a bread knife. She doesn’t do small talk, which I appreciate. She gives me a quiet nod as I settle into my seat.
Claire launches into her usual script. Fairness. Neutrality. Constructive dialogue. Her tone is soft and calm, the voice of a woman who’s probably guided more couples into polite endings than she cares to remember.
Sim-Sim doesn’t say anything. He keeps his hands clasped together in front of him. His lawyer whispers something in his ear, and he nods.
He didn’t want the divorce. Still doesn’t. He said it was one mistake. One stupid, meaningless, porn-grade decision that “meant nothing.”
Right. Once a cheater, always a cheater. I just couldn’t see a way back.
Renata turns the page.
“We need to address the housing situation,” she says. “Miranda is currently living in the Battersea property, which remains the primary residence for both her and SJ. She’s in the guest room. It’s a temporary arrangement, but it would be disruptive to move her and the child.”
Sim-Sim’s lawyer Giles clears his throat. “To clarify, the Battersea flat is owned solely by Mr Gordon. It was purchased before the marriage and is not considered a joint marital asset.”
“I’m aware,” Renata replies, calm. “We’re not disputing ownership. We’re talking about continuity and security for the child.”
“Simon Junior,” Giles says, and I nearly roll my eyes into another tax bracket.
“Simon Junior Junior,” I correct him, deadpan. “Or SJ, as literally everyone calls him.”
Giles gives a tight little smile.
“We’ve agreed Mr Gordon covers SJ’s expenses,” Giles continues. “School fees, clothing, travel. There’s no dispute there. He’ll provide generously.”
Renata doesn’t blink. “But no spousal maintenance. Despite the fact that Miranda paused her career at the birth of their son, in agreement with Mr Gordon, and has not been in full-time employment since.”
“She’s capable of working,” Giles says. “There’s no physical or medical barrier. Or, of course, she could remain in the marriage. That option is still open.”
I laugh. Just once, sharp and humourless.
“Oh, is it? How generous. I get a choice—poverty or forgiveness.”
Sim-Sim finally speaks. “It’s not about punishment, Miranda. I made a mistake.”
“So you’ve said.”
Claire shifts slightly in her chair. Renata stays completely still.
“You offered to cover everything for SJ,” I continue. “That’s fine. But I’m not just the woman who made him packed lunches for eight years. I gave up my job. My pension. My independence. Because we agreed that was what was best for the family. Your words.”
“And now you want me to keep paying you,” Sim-Sim says. “What for? To prove I’m sorry?”
“No,” I say. “Because I did the work. You built a business. I built a life around it. I won’t apologise for expecting that to count for something.”
He looks down at the table.
Claire clears her throat gently. “Would you both like a short break?”
“No,” I say, voice flat. “We’re not done yet.”
Giles leans forward, folding his hands in that lawyerly way that signals this part isn’t up for discussion.
“My client is clear,” he says. “He is not prepared to pay spousal maintenance. That is non-negotiable.”
I nod, slowly. “Of course. Heaven forbid I drain the hedge fund.”
Renata places a hand on her notes but says nothing.
Giles continues. “Mr Gordon has offered to contribute fifty percent of any rent Miranda pays going forward, which is generous and ensures SJ’s housing is secure.
He’s also willing to cover the cost of any childcare she requires while returning to work.
This is not about withholding support. This is about creating fair, sustainable terms.”
“Fair,” I say. “Yes, because nothing says fairness like your ex-husband subsidising a shoebox while you try to convince someone to hire you after nearly a decade out of the workforce. Very empowering.”
Sim-Sim glances at me, jaw tense.
“You said you wanted to be free of me,” he says quietly.
“No, I said I wanted respect,” I snap. “But clearly that comes out of a different budget.”
The room goes still for a second too long.
Claire straightens her posture, smoothing her expression into something neutral. “Let me remind both parties,” she says, her voice still soft but firmer now, “that if we cannot reach an agreement on these terms, the case will have to proceed to family court.”
She lets that sit.
“That will involve significant delays. Possibly months. You’ll both lose control of the outcome, and any judge will prioritise the welfare of the child above all else. So I would encourage you to consider whether continued negotiation might be preferable to formal proceedings.”
Renata turns to me.
Just a glance. Calm. But I know that look.
It’s the one that says, you can push this if you want, but it’s a risk. A judge might not side with you. And if it goes the wrong way, you could end up with even less.
Less support. Less say. Less everything.
Because the law doesn’t care that I spent the last eight years raising a child while Sim-Sim doubled his company’s assets. It cares that I’m fit, healthy, and technically employable. It cares that there’s no violence, no addiction, no chaos. Just a marriage quietly dismantled by arrogance and lust.
Sim-Sim, to his credit—or maybe just his advantage—says nothing.
He knows Renata’s look too.
I tap my fingers on the table, once, then stop.
“Fine,” I say.
It comes out quieter than I mean it to.
I clear my throat and try again.
“Fine,” sharper this time. “I’ll take the half rent. I’ll take the childcare. And I’ll find a job.”
No one says anything. Not even Claire.
I look across the table at Sim-Sim.
“You win.”
He shakes his head slightly. “It’s not about winning, Miranda.”
“No,” I say, “of course not. This is just the prize you get for being consistently disappointing.”
Claire clears her throat.
“Shall we move on to the next item?” she says gently.
Renata nods. She’s already turning the page.
I sit back and breathe through my nose. I don’t blink. I don’t cry. And I sure as hell don’t give Sim-Sim the satisfaction of looking broken.
But in the pit of my stomach, something folds in on itself.
It’s late afternoon by the time I get to Little Hadlow. The sun’s already losing its confidence and the air smells faintly of woodsmoke and wet leaves. November is doing its best to look poetic while everyone quietly freezes to death.
I couldn’t face going back to the flat.
Not after that.
Sim-Sim had the nerve to look relieved when I told him I’d be out for the evening. Said he’d do a father–son dinner. Pizza and Mario Kart, I expect. Bonding time, he called it.
I nodded, packed a bag, and left before I started shouting in front of SJ.
Now I’m standing on Amelia and Ben’s doorstep, bag in hand, eyes scratchy with exhaustion and fury I haven’t quite finished processing.
I press the doorbell.
Nothing.
I try again. A longer press.
Still nothing.
I glance through the frosted glass. No movement. Just a warm hallway and the faint outline of someone’s coat on the hook.
I press it a third time, this time with less patience.
The door swings open.
Ben. Shirt halfway over his head, bare legs, boxers. Tartan, obviously.
His face shifts the second he sees me.
I step forward. The tears hit before I even open my mouth.
No warning. Just full-body crying. Heat behind my eyes, throat locked, everything crumpling at once.
I don’t give him a chance to say anything. I just walk straight past him into the house where I drop my bag on the wooden floor.
Smutty appears from the living room, tail swishing, expression deeply unimpressed. He pauses in the doorway, clocks it’s me, then vanishes again without fanfare.
Ben closes the door. “Bloody hell, Miranda,” he says softly behind me. “What’s happened?”
I shake my head, uselessly. Hands braced on my knees. Breath dragging in like I’ve run a mile uphill in heels.
Everything’s shaking—or I am. Hard to tell.
“Where’s Amelia?” I manage, voice rough.
Ben grins, that familiar, lopsided one. “Bedroom. I’ll get her.”
He turns.
And that’s when it hits me.
The boxers. The flushed grin. The slow door. Of course they were.
“Oh god,” I mutter. “Ben.”
He stops on the first step, glancing back over his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, straightening up, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “I didn’t think. I should’ve texted. I’ve just—fuck. I didn’t mean to barge in on—whatever—”
He waves a hand, still smiling, but softer now.
“Don’t be daft. You’re always welcome. Even mid-orgasm.”
That gets a laugh out of me. Croaky. Stupid. But real.
“Give us a sec. I’ll go grab her.”
He pads up the staircase, still entirely too casual in his boxers. The floor creaks faintly overhead, then a door opens. Muffled voices. Amelia’s, soft and surprised.
I lean back against the wall. The house smells of fabric softener and wood polish. There’s a jumper hung on the banister and a pair of trainers kicked off by the coat rack. Ordinary things. Warm things.
This is what a home should feel like.
The stairs creak again.
Amelia appears, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed, fully dressed in yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt that reads Cat Ladies Rule the World in faded lettering.
She doesn’t say a word. Just walks straight up to me and wraps me in her arms.
She’s warm. Solid. Comfort in human form. No pressure, no questions—just the steady weight of someone who knows exactly how to hold a person together.
I fold into her. Breathe in that faint scent of lemon and let myself cry.
Behind her, Ben comes back down the stairs, now in jeans and a grey T-shirt. Smutty winds between his ankles and lets himself be scooped up like a prince accepting tribute. He curls against Ben’s chest, purring happily.
Ben glances at us and nods. “I’ll put the kettle on.”