Fourteen #3
“Custody is set. You have the house. The superannuation split is pending valuation. It’s this one clause. He will not let go of it.”
“Because it’s the only thing that will still matter in five years,” I say, the bitterness cutting through even my own attempt at detachment.
I can hear Leo’s voice in my head, telling me to be kind.
It sounds different when the thing you have worked so hard to build is being threatened by someone who never believed in it in the first place.
“How long can this drag out?” I ask, already suspecting the answer.
“If he keeps stalling? Weeks. If he drags in a forensic accountant, maybe months. I’ll keep the pressure on. But be prepared for games.”
“Always am,” I say. My eyes settle on the fridge, which is humming like a nervous chaperone at a sixth-grade dance.
“Do you need anything from me?” I ask, forcing the call toward its conclusion.
“Just patience,” says Clara. “And, as always, documentation. If you so much as tweet about a new contract, forward me the email chain.”
I nearly ask her if she wants the password to my Goodreads account, but I refrain. Instead, I say, “Copy that.” The call clicks off so quickly, it leaves an aftertaste.
I set the phone down. My jaw is tight, but the rest of me is as still as the mug in my hands.
There are, in life, bad mornings. And then there are mornings where you realize your ex-husband would rather spend eternity arguing over your imagined future than ever spend another weekend with your actual child.
The phone buzzes again. This time its Luca.
????????????????
BABE.
CALL ME. RIGHT NOW.
I HAVE NEWS.
Before I can respond, another message appears.
Actually don't. I'm already in the car.
I brace my elbows on the countertop and wait. Not because I doubt he’s serious. But because in the years I’ve known Luca, I have never, not once, been able to stop him from doing exactly as he pleased.
He arrives not even fifteen minutes later, wearing a scarf I’m fairly certain is new and an energy that could power the grid for a week. He doesn’t bother with the doorbell, just raps a knuckle on the glass and sweeps into the entryway.
He’s still pulling his jacket off when he reaches the kitchen.
“It’s a day, isn’t it,” he says, voice pitched to suggest that it’s not just a day, but a Day, capital D, and possibly all the days at once.
I lift a hand in greeting but otherwise stay put. “You want coffee?”
He waves it off. “Can’t. Caffeine on top of adrenaline is a lethal combo.”
He drops onto the stool across from me, sets both palms flat on the counter, and exhales like a man who’s run a marathon.
I watch him in suspicion, not moving. “Out with it.”
He gives me a look, the kind only Luca can manage. A mixture of sympathy, excitement, and a dash of mischief, all encompassed in a single blink.
“You remember how I told you Adrian’s building shares a maintenance staff with Ethan’s?”
“Unforgettable trivia,” I say, deadpan.
He points at me. “Well, turns out, sometimes the universe has a sense of humour. The building manager, a woman named Lorraine, tragic taste in perfume, but a mind like a steel trap, happens to be on a first-name basis with half the HR departments in the district. And guess what hit her friend’s desk this week? ”
He lets the question hang. I don’t answer. I know that he will cave far before I do.
“Your ex’s little office romance? Not so little anymore,” he says, and for a moment the glee is unmistakable. “The other woman? Tessa? She’s filed a formal complaint. Citing power imbalance, failure to disclose, and, wait for it, she has given evidence that he used company resources.”
I blink. Once. Twice. “Evidence?”
He beams. “Emails, texts, bank statements, who knows. Lorraine didn’t want to speculate, but she’s heard rumours.”
I reach for my mug, not because I need the coffee, but because it’s something to do with my hands.
Luca’s voice drops, softening around the edges. “You okay?”
I set the mug down. “I am not even surprised. This is the same man who couldn’t understand why every store didn’t use the same rewards card.”
Luca studies me, searching for a flicker, a tremor, any sign of the satisfaction he’d clearly hoped to share. When he finds none, he dials his energy back a bit, though it cannot be fully contained.
“You don’t want to gloat? Not even a little?”
“I don’t want anything,” I say, and realize it’s mostly true. “It just feels like the universe finally skipped to the punchline.”
He grins. “That’s beautiful. I’m going to put it on a mug.”
I gesture at my own. “I’d buy you one. Maybe get Liv to design it.”
He shakes his head, feigning disbelief. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m thrilled. Karma never shows up on time, but at least it dressed for the occasion.”
We sit like that for a beat as I ponder over my ex-husband’s situation.
“You know what the best part is? He still thinks he has a leg to stand on. I bet he will try to talk his way out of it.”
Luca raises a brow. “He’s a man. Hope is the last thing to die.”
I laugh at that. “And here I thought you’d suggest some arson to top it off.”
He pretends to consider. “Tempting darling. But that option tends leaves a mess.”
I pour myself a fresh mug of coffee, pour him one even though he said no. The ritual is grounding.
Luca watches. “You’re really not going to let yourself enjoy this, are you?”
I look at him over the rim of my cup. “What would you like me to do, Luca? Send flowers to Tessa? Bake a cake?”
He tips his head back and laughs. “No. I want you to do exactly what you’re doing. Be the unflappable icon you were born to be.”
“Unflappable is a stretch.”
“Emotionally armoured, then. Like a designer tank.”
I smile at his ridiculousness. “It’s not armour. It’s exhaustion.”
He nods, the humour replaced with something softer. “I know. But if you change your mind, I have a playlist ready for the occasion. Just in case. And you KNOW I can rope the others into a karma disco.”
I tap the mug with my fingernail, stare out the window as the morning light spills onto the kitchen tile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Luca stands, stretches, and re-wraps his scarf with a flourish. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Always.”
He hesitates at the door. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
I consider lying, but the words don’t come. Instead, I shrug, which is its own kind of answer.
He leaves, and the house is silent again. I sit at the kitchen island, and wonder whether this is what healing looks like. Not triumph or catharsis, just the slow, deliberate act of not letting your soon to be ex-husbands fate decide your emotions.
The day winds down with a kind of nervous grace.
The air through the kitchen window is thick and lemony with late sunlight, enough that I can smell the neighbour’s cut grass and the chemical tang of a pool filter.
I stand with my arms braced against the sink, staring through a flecked pane of glass at Leo, who is methodically kicking a soccer ball against the back fence.
Each thud echoes a little, then vanishes into the empty space between our house and the one next door.
I’ve started to like the silence. Not as a balm, but as a way of confirming that nothing else is coming for me today.
The phone rings. I consider letting it go, but habit wins. I answer on the third ring.
“Harper,” says Clara, her voice filtered through Bluetooth and professionalism. “Update from the opposition.”
I picture Ethan somewhere, hunched over a phone, agitated. It is almost comforting.
“Ethan’s counsel has requested an urgent meeting,” Clara continues. “They’re pressing for rapid mediation on the royalties. My source says there’s been a change, he’s pushing for a fast resolution. Like he needs something, anything, in the win column.”
She doesn’t say why and I can’t help but ask, “do you know why the sudden push?”
Clara’s tone softens just a tad, enough to leak through the phone. “There’s something going on at his work. I don’t have the details, but whatever it is, he’s feeling it. He wants this over.”
There’s a satisfaction in hearing it, but it’s small and mean, and I refuse to give in to the petty satisfaction when my priorities should lie with Leo and the little bean.
I say, “I’m not giving up a cent of my business.”
Clara says, “Good. He’s just scared. Scared people make bad deals. Let him try.”
I picture Clara in her office, surrounded by binders, not a hair out of place. I imagine her smiling for real as she says it.
She adds, “I’ll tell them that we can meet in the morning. Nine am work for you?”
“Yea that works for me. Thanks, Clara.”
She hangs up, and the silence returns, the only sound is the metronome of Leo’s soccer ball.
I watch him a while longer. The ball misses the fence, rolls into the garden bed. He follows, kneeling in the dirt and pulling a face at the soil smeared on his shoe. I know he’ll leave the tracks all through the kitchen, and I know I’ll wipe them up tonight, and I know I won’t mind.
Somewhere, that’s not here, Ethan is scrambling. Somewhere, he’s realizing that the last hand he played is slipping out of reach. I don’t feel triumphant. Not even relieved. But I do feel this. I am done rolling over whilst he tries to take anything else from me.
Leo yells, “Mum! Did you see that?” and I wave at him, already turning from the window.
“Yes,” I say, smiling at the sight of my happy and muddy boy. Knowing that tomorrow I will walk through hell to protect our futures.
***
The conference room feels colder than it needs to be.
The table is too long for the number of people in it, as if the whole performance requires at least twelve more actors to legitimize the farce.
On the wall, a brass clock clicks a little faster than my pulse.
I can see my own reflection in the glass door, but not clearly enough to know if I look as calm as I want to.