Chapter Eight
Harrison
Harrison sat in his corner office, the glass walls feeling less like a position of power and more like a terrarium.
He had managed to shower at the motel, but he was wearing the same suit trousers from two days ago. He had bought a cheap white shirt from a department store on the way in, but it was stiff with starch and scratched his neck. He felt like an imposter in his own skin.
On his dual monitors, a logistics spreadsheet for the Midwest distribution chain was open. He hadn't looked at a single cell in four hours.
Instead, he was staring at his phone, willing the Block to be lifted.
She has to answer eventually, he told himself, spinning a pen between his fingers until it blurred. Couples fight. People scream. But they don't throw away five years over one mistake. She’s just cooling off. She’s punishing me.
He clung to that word: Punishment. Punishment implied a lesson. Punishment implied that once the sentence was served, he would be released back into the general population of his marriage.
He just needed to endure the silence.
A knock on his glass door shattered his concentration.
He looked up. It was Jenkins, the intern. The kid looked pale, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Harrison?" Jenkins squeaked.
"What is it, Jenkins? I'm busy," Harrison barked, minimizing the window that showed his empty inbox.
"There’s... uh... there’s a guy at the front desk. He says he needs to see you personally. Security tried to hold him, but he has credentials."
Harrison frowned. "A client?"
"He didn't say. He just said it’s a legal matter."
Harrison’s stomach dropped. Police? Did Sarah call the police? Had he broken a law by sleeping with her sister? No, adultery wasn't a crime, it was just... a sin.
"Send him back," Harrison said, standing up and buttoning his jacket, trying to summon the authority he no longer felt.
He watched through the glass as a man in a nondescript windbreaker walked through the bullpen. The office, usually a hum of low chatter and typing, went quiet. The man didn't look like a corporate lawyer. He looked like a retired cop—square-jawed, bored, and efficient.
The man walked straight to Harrison’s door, opened it without knocking, and stepped inside.
"Harrison Miller?" the man asked. His voice was loud, carrying over the partition walls.
"Yes," Harrison said, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Can we keep this down? I’m in the middle of—"
"I have a delivery for you," the man interrupted. He reached into a satchel and pulled out a thick, heavy envelope. It wasn't a standard letter. It was a packet.
Harrison stared at it. "What is that?"
"Legal documents regarding the dissolution of marriage," the man said, his tone as flat as a dial tone.
The words hung in the air, suspended in the sudden, absolute silence of the office floor. Dissolution of marriage.
Harrison felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold and dizzy. "Dissolution? You mean... separation?"
"I mean divorce, Mr. Miller," the man said. He thrust the envelope toward Harrison. "Sign here to acknowledge receipt."
He held out a clipboard.
Harrison looked past the man’s shoulder. Outside the glass walls, heads were turning. His team—people he managed, people who respected him—were watching. He saw Susan from accounting cover her mouth. He saw Jenkins looking at the floor.
"Sarah..." Harrison whispered. She hadn't just called a lawyer. She had sent a process server to his place of business in the middle of the workday. This wasn't just legal action; it was a tactical nuclear strike.
"Mr. Miller," the man prompted, tapping the clipboard. "I don't have all day."
Harrison took the pen. His hand was shaking so violently he could barely form the ‘H’. He scrawled something resembling a signature.
"You've been served," the man said. He dropped the heavy envelope onto Harrison’s desk. It landed with a thud that sounded like a coffin lid closing.
The man turned and walked out.
Harrison stood alone in the glass box. He couldn't look up. He knew everyone was staring.
Slowly, as if moving underwater, he reached for the envelope. He tore the top open.
He pulled out the petition.
IN THE CIRCUIT COURT OF COOK COUNTY
PETITIONER: SARAH BENNETT (f/k/a MILLER)
RESPONDENT: HARRISON MILLER
Bennett. She had already used her maiden name on the filing.
He scanned the document, his eyes burning.
COUNT I: DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
Grounds: Adultery.
COUNT II: ASSET DIVISION
Harrison dropped into his chair, the papers crinkling in his grip.
It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a negotiation. It was a demolition order.
"It meant nothing," he whispered to the empty room, the mantra he had used to soothe himself for forty-eight hours.
He looked at the bold black letters: IRRETRIEVABLE brEAKDOWN.
The law didn't care that it meant nothing to him. To the law, and to Sarah, it meant everything.
His phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Emily.
Emily: Did you get paid today? We need to pay for another night at the motel. Also, I’m hungry.
Harrison looked at the text. Then he looked at the divorce papers.
A laugh bubbled up in his throat—a dry, hysterical sound. He had traded a woman who was filing pristine legal briefs to protect her dignity for a woman who was asking him for motel money via text message.
He put his head on the desk, covering his face with his hands, and for the first time since the lights came on in the living room, Harrison Miller stopped lying to himself.
He wasn't in the doghouse. He was in hell. And he had built it brick by brick.