Chapter 6
Vivian
A little while later, Alejandro called on a Monday, voice gentle but businesslike. “I’ve been thinking about our last conversation. Would you let me recommend someone to help with your divorce?”
It wasn’t really a question. I accepted his offer.
Two days later, I found myself in a corner office overlooking the river, sitting across from a woman with steel-gray hair and the kind of smile that let you know she’d eaten people like Ryan for breakfast.
“Alejandro says you’re a fighter,” she said. “I like fighters.”
I tried to play it cool, but inside I was vibrating.
She spent twenty minutes demolishing every angle of my case. “You don’t just get half,” she said. “You get the house, the accounts, the retirement. He cheats, he pays.”
I left with a folder thicker than my thesis and a business card that cost more than my car.
Alejandro met me in the lobby, leaning against a marble column.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“She’s a little scary,” I admitted.
He grinned. “She’s supposed to be.”
We went for coffee. The barista greeted him by name and comped our drinks. He talked about books and wine and the city’s best pizza, never asking for more than I wanted to give. At the crosswalk, he offered his arm; I took it, pretending I was someone who still believed in good things.
He said, “You remind me of my mother.”
I blinked. “Should I be insulted?”
He shook his head. “She survived a war. Built a new life from nothing. People thought she was fragile. They were wrong.”
I couldn’t help it—I smiled.
He looked at me, really looked, and for a second, I almost let myself trust him.
At home, the fallout had begun.
Ryan was livid when he got the first letter from my lawyer. He cornered me in the driveway, face red, hands shaking.
“What the hell, Vivian? You want to ruin me?”
I shrugged, ice-cold. “You did this, not me.”
He sputtered, searching for a weapon. “You can’t win. Not with what I know.”
“Try me,” I said.
He stormed off, slamming the car door so hard the window rattled.
Lisa waited for me inside, eyes wide. “Is it true? You’re fighting for the house?”
I nodded.
She looked scared, but then she pasted on her cheerleader smile. “You’ll win. You always do.”
The next day, Alejandro sent me a text: “Thinking of you. Hope the world is kind today.”
I wanted to reply, “It never is,” but instead I wrote, “Thank you.”
At lunch, my new lawyer called. “Don’t answer Ryan’s texts. If he contacts you, forward it to me.”
She sounded like a mob boss, which I found comforting.
I spent the afternoon drafting my own list: what I wanted, what I needed, what I’d never settle for again.
It was the first time in months I felt even a little bit in control.
Ryan, on the other hand, was unraveling.
He started coming home drunk, picking fights with Lisa, leaving angry messages on my phone.
One night, he showed up at the house at midnight, pounding on the front door.
I refused to let him in. He shouted through the glass, “You’re nothing without me!”
I didn’t answer. I just watched as he stumbled off into the darkness.
The next morning, Lisa found a dead rose taped to my car windshield. No note, just the flower.
I threw it away without comment.
Meanwhile, Alejandro kept his distance, never pushing, always respectful. But every few days, he’d send a text or an email: “Saw a sunset that reminded me of you.” “My favorite bakery has your favorite cookies this week.” “Just checking in—no pressure.”
He made it so easy to forget that the rest of my life was a dumpster fire.
One afternoon, Lisa pulled me aside in the hallway. “I know you hate me,” she whispered, “but please be careful. Ryan’s… different lately.”
I shrugged her off. “You picked him. Live with it.”
She looked like she wanted to say more, but she was scared. Maybe for me, maybe for herself.
That night, I heard them arguing in the backyard.
Lisa: “You promised we’d start fresh.”
Ryan: “I just need more time. She’s making it impossible.”
Lisa: “You’re scaring me, Ryan.”
He didn’t answer. I watched from the window as he stormed off, fists clenched.
The next day, Alejandro’s lawyer called again. “Your husband is stalling. I’ll fix it.”
I laughed, a real one. “I wish I could be as confident as you.”
She replied, “It’s not confidence. It’s experience.”
That week, I ran into Alejandro on the riverwalk.
He was alone, hands in his pockets, watching the water.
He spotted me and smiled, the kind that lit up his whole face.
We walked for a while, not saying much. Finally, I said, “Why are you so nice to me?”
He paused, then answered, “Because you remind me that not everyone is out for blood.”
He didn’t try to kiss me. He didn’t even touch my hand. But when I looked at him, I felt seen in a way I hadn’t in years.
Across town, Ryan’s life was falling apart.
He missed work. He started selling off our old stuff—golf clubs, a stereo, his watch.
Lisa begged him to get help. He screamed at her instead.
I started sleeping with the door locked.
One night, the baby furniture was gone from the nursery. I never asked where it went.
A week later, Ryan called.
His voice was shaky, scared. “I need to talk. Please, Vivian.”
I let it go to voicemail.
An hour later, someone knocked on my door.
Two men in dark suits stood on the porch, faces blank. One handed me an envelope.
“Tell your husband we came by,” he said.
Before I could ask who sent them, they were gone.
Inside, I opened the envelope. A single sheet of paper:
You have one week to repay what you owe.
Underneath, a name: Bellandi.
I called Alejandro in a panic.
He answered on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”
I told him about the men, the note, the name.
He was silent for a long moment. Then, “Vivian, listen to me. You need to stay away from Ryan. Do not answer his calls. Do not meet with him. Can you promise me that?”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
He hung up.
I stood in my kitchen, shaking.
That night, Ryan showed up again. He pounded on the door, begging to be let in. When I refused, he screamed threats until the neighbors called the cops.
He left before they arrived, but he left a message on my voicemail:
“You can’t hide from me. You can’t hide from them, either. You think you’re safe? You’re not.”
I deleted it.
The next morning, Alejandro sent a single text: “You are safe.”
I believed him.
For the first time, I let myself imagine a future where I could be happy again.
But I knew the storm wasn’t over yet.
Holy. Freaking. Heck.
It was just getting started.
The apartment was a shoebox—one bedroom, no dishwasher, walls thin as tissue paper. But it was mine, and for the first time in years, I could breathe.
I filled the shelves with secondhand books and discount plants, brewed cheap coffee in the mornings, and painted my toenails blue just because I felt like it.
No one left dirty socks on the floor. No one “forgot” to put the toilet seat down.
The silence was a little too loud, but I liked how it sounded.
Every day, I woke up more certain that I’d made the right choice. Every day, the ache in my chest got a little smaller.
Alejandro called twice a week at first, under the pretense of “checking in on your case.” But it wasn’t about the divorce—he wanted to know if I was eating, if I’d met my neighbors, if I liked the new city.
He remembered details no one else did: that I hated the color yellow, that my coffee order was always double cream, that I’d once dreamed of seeing Rome in the spring.
Our conversations were the brightest part of my day. I started counting down to them, measuring time in phone calls instead of court dates.
He never asked me out, never hinted at anything more than friendship. But sometimes, late at night, I’d replay his voice in my head and wonder what it would be like if I let myself want him.
Meanwhile, Ryan was circling the drain.
First, his job demoted him. Then his car got repossessed. The bank froze his accounts. Every time he tried to fight back, some invisible wall shut him down.
He called me once, rage barely contained. “You’re doing this, aren’t you? You’re trying to ruin me.”
I told him he was delusional. But part of me wondered.
Lisa was no better. She’d started seeing a therapist, quit her influencer gig, and spent most days in bed. Her hair was limp, her eyes rimmed red. She never mentioned the baby, not even once.
I should have felt vindicated, but all I felt was tired.
Then on a certain Thursday, Alejandro called with a different kind of invitation.
“My company is hosting a fundraiser this weekend. Would you like to join me?”
I hesitated. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
He laughed. “I’ll take care of it.”
A courier arrived the next day with a box: inside, a navy blue dress, simple and perfect, plus a pair of silver heels. No note, just a slip of paper with the address and time.
The event was in a glass building downtown, the kind you could see from any point in the city. I checked my reflection in the lobby—hair up, lipstick fresh, dress fitting like it was made for me.
Alejandro met me at the elevators. He wore a black tux, crisp and classic, and he smiled like I was the only person in the room.
“You look beautiful,” he said, voice quiet.
“So do you,” I answered, and for once, I meant it.
He guided me into the ballroom, hand light on my back.
The place was full of politicians, judges, celebrities. Alejandro knew everyone, but he never let go of me, never let the conversation drift too far from what I cared about.
For the first hour, I thought I’d stick out like a stray dog at the symphony. But people actually listened when I talked. They wanted my opinion. They laughed at my jokes.
It was intoxicating.
At one point, Alejandro introduced me to the mayor. “This is Vivian,” he said. “She’s the most courageous woman I know.”
I wanted to protest, but the way he said it—like it was simply true—left me speechless.
After dinner, we escaped onto the rooftop. The city lights shimmered below, and the music inside faded to a distant hum.
Alejandro leaned on the railing, watching me.
“I want you to know something,” he said. “Nothing that happened was your fault. Not the marriage, not the betrayal. You did everything right. You survived.”
The words landed so deep, I almost cried.
He reached for my hand, just a little.
I didn’t pull away.
For a moment, the world felt new.
Paparazzi caught us leaving together.
The next morning, my phone was full of texts—half from people asking if I was dating “the Bellandi Judge,” half from Ryan.
The first message from Ryan was just a link. The photo was everywhere: Alejandro in his tux, me in my blue dress, laughing like I’d never been hurt in my life.
I deleted the message, but he sent another.
You think you can move on and leave me with nothing? You’re wrong. You’ll regret this.
I blocked his number. The old me might have panicked, but now I just felt pity.
Across town, Ryan was losing it. He showed the photo to Lisa, who stared at it with a strange look—half fear, half envy.
Lisa: “She looks… happy.”
Ryan: “It’s a trick. She’s trying to get to me.”
Lisa: “Maybe you should let her go.”
Ryan: “You don’t get it. If I can’t have her, no one can.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
The next day, Alejandro called just to ask if I was okay. He’d seen the photos. “I’m sorry for the attention,” he said. “I just wanted you to have a good night.”
I told him the truth. “It was the best night I’ve had in years.”
We talked until midnight, about nothing and everything.
When I hung up, I realized I wasn’t angry anymore. I wasn’t sad, or desperate, or broken.
I was just… free.
That night, Ryan sat alone in his empty house, watching the city lights blink on and off.
He poured himself a drink, stared at the photo of me and Alejandro, and made a decision.
If he couldn’t have me, he’d make sure no one else did.
Holy. Freaking. Heck.
And somewhere in the dark, I finally let myself hope for something better.