Chapter 7
Claire files the response at two thirteen the next afternoon.
I know this because I watch the confirmation hit her inbox while sitting across from her in Abel’s conference room, drinking coffee from a paper cup and trying not to look like a woman whose marriage is ending by court filing.
The room is all dark wood, matte glass, and expensive silence. Abel’s firm does not decorate. It buys furniture in dark wood and dares you to relax.
Claire turns her laptop toward me. "Response and counter-petition filed. TRO application submitted. Hearing request attached."
"TRO," I say. "Temporary restraining order."
"Yes."
"Against the migration."
"Against the migration, unauthorized advisory transfer, and any further trustee action by Marshall pending the hearing."
"Not against Marshall personally."
"Not yet."
"Shame."
Claire gives me a look over her glasses. "If he behaves like an ass on paper, I’ll consider my options."
"I enjoy your optimism."
Abel sits beside me, not too close. He has been careful since the records room. I appreciate it. I also want to throw a binder at him for being good at restraint.
Complicated womanhood. Many folders.
"What happens when Marshall is served?" I ask.
Claire closes the laptop. "He panics. Then he calls his lawyer. Then he calls Sabine. Then he tries you."
"I don’t answer."
"Correct."
"What if he comes home?"
Abel answers before Claire can. "Do you feel safe with him in the house?"
The question is plain.
No drama. No pity. No manly thunder.
That makes it easier to answer.
"No."
Abel nods once. "Then you don’t stay there tonight."
"It’s my house."
"Yes."
"My father put it in my name before the wedding."
"I know."
"I am not letting Marshall chase me out of my own house."
"I’m not suggesting he gets the house," Abel says. "I’m suggesting you choose the timing of your confrontation."
Claire leans back. "He is about to lose control of the story. Men like Marshall often mistake surprise for permission to escalate."
"So I leave because he might have a tantrum?"
Claire does not soften it. "You leave because you are smart. Then tomorrow, if you want to end the marriage in the house your father protected for you, we arrange it with a witness nearby and security available."
I hate how reasonable that is.
"I was planning to tell him tonight," I say.
Abel shakes his head. "Tell him tomorrow. After service, after we know what he has received, and after the access codes are handled."
"I have a keypad deadbolt. He doesn’t carry a key. He uses his code because keys ruin the line of his pants."
Claire’s eyebrows rise.
"I wish I were making that up."
"Disable the code after you are away from the house," Abel says.
"You’ve thought this through."
"Because you matter."
The conference table suddenly feels too small for the three of us.
Claire suddenly becomes fascinated by her laptop, which is subtle if you are new to humans.
My pulse bumps once, hard.
"That was dangerously close to personal," I say.
Abel does not look away. "It is personal."
"Abel."
"I know the line."
"Do you?"
"I know where it is. I did not claim to like it."
There is nothing stiff in his voice now. Nothing lawyerly. Just a man saying something he has been holding back.
My breath catches before my brain finishes the agenda.
I want him.
Not as proof that I am desirable. Not as revenge. Not because Marshall has neglected my body so long I have started thinking of touch as a distant memory.
I want Abel because he looks at me like I am still whole, and because his hands are careful, and because he stopped last night when stopping cost him something.
That is inconvenient.
It is also true.
"This could be a terrible idea," I say.
"Yes."
"I could be rebounding so hard I leave a dent."
His mouth curves. "Possible."
"You could be mistaking crisis for chemistry."
"I’m not."
"Confident."
"No. I have eyes."
The heat that moves through me is not elegant. It is not poetic. It is a woman in a conference room imagining a man’s mouth on her skin while a restraining order sits in a filing confirmation window.
My life has range.
Claire clears her throat.
"I am going to step out and pretend this meeting stayed billable."
"Claire," I say.
"What? I’m excellent at pretending. It’s why judges like me."
She leaves.
Abel stays seated. Still careful.
I almost hate him for it.
"Tomorrow," he says, "end the marriage. Clearly. No proof map. No argument about the petition. No explaining your evidence."
"Because Marshall will use whatever I give him."
"Yes."
"And after?"
His eyes hold mine.
"After, you decide what you want without him in the room."
My throat tightens.
"He hasn’t touched me in months," I say.
Abel’s face changes, not with pity. With anger held hard enough not to spill.
"I’m sorry."
"Don’t be. It was easier to sleep beside a man I was trying not to want."
"Did you stop wanting him before this?"
I think about that.
About Marshall’s hand at my back during donor dinners. His voice calling me fragile. The way I kept trying to find the husband I married inside the man managing me.
"Yes," I say. "A while ago. I just didn’t want to admit it was over before I said it out loud."
Abel nods slowly.
"Then tomorrow is not the ending," he says. "It is the paperwork catching up."
That is exactly what I needed him to say.
I stand before I do something reckless on a conference table with terrible acoustics.
"I’m going to a hotel," I say.
"I’ll have security meet you."
"That sounds expensive."
"Your trust can afford one night of not being murdered by a cliché."
I laugh before I can stop it.
Abel looks pleased again.
At the door, I stop. "Careful. You’re getting funny."
"Only under pressure."
"Same." I should leave it there. I do not.
"Abel?"
"After tomorrow, I’m going to want you."
His face goes still.
"Honor."
"I’m not asking you to answer."
"I am answering anyway." His voice is rough now. "After tomorrow, if you want me, you will not have to wonder if I want you back."
I walk out before I can test whether Claire’s conference table is sturdier than it looks.