7. Marianne #2
He reached down and yanked a rusted desk drawer open. The metal runners let out a hollow, metallic screech that bounced off the plaster walls. He tossed a cheap plastic pen onto the scarred wooden surface, watching it roll with a dull clatter until it hit a stack of loose files.
He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the manila folder. He stared at her, as if trying to figure out if she was joking or insane.
“I pulled up the initial corporate filings,” Simon said. “You’re married to the CEO of a multibillion-dollar holding company.”
“I am,” Marianne said.
She couldn’t blame him for staring at her like she belonged in a psychiatric ward. Walking away from the Hawthorne fortune without demanding a single dime looked like insanity to a strip-mall lawyer. To the outside world, she was a pregnant woman choosing poverty.
But accepting Tristan’s money meant staying chained to that venomous estate.
Eleanor and Winston wielded their trust funds like choke chains.
Relinquishing every single claim to the marital assets severed the leash completely.
It guaranteed they could never use their wealth to dictate her daughter’s life, or force Marianne back to a dining room table to be publicly humiliated.
“You realize who you’re married to, right?” Simon asked, leaning forward over the scarred wood. “Any competent attorney could crack that prenup and secure you millions in spousal support. Are you absolutely certain you want to walk away empty-handed?”
Marianne did not shrink under his stare. She shifted forward in the guest chair, leaning into the cramped space. She gripped the edge of his desk, holding her ground. She locked her eyes onto the attorney, slipping naturally into the authoritative voice she once used on the Hawthorne estate staff.
“Draft the petition exactly as I instructed, Mr. Rosenberg,” Marianne said. “I am formally rejecting all alimony, surrendering any claim to his corporate assets, and stipulating zero dollars in child support.”
Simon hesitated, taken aback by her tone. He looked down at the plastic pen resting against the files, then back up to her face.
“A family court judge is going to seriously question a zero-dollar support demand if you ever apply for state assistance,” Simon warned. “But if you want to build a bulletproof wall, I will write the waivers in explicitly.”
“Build the wall,” Marianne told him.
Simon exhaled a long breath, abandoning his objections. He dropped the pen, pulling a keyboard across the desk to begin typing out her total surrender of the Hawthorne empire.
Simon placed the finalized legal document onto the desk. He pushed the pen aside.
“Sign the bottom line, and place your initials next to the support waiver on page eleven,” Simon said.
He leaned back in his chair, watching her hands.
“Once this is filed with the clerk, reversing it requires a judge’s order, so be sure.”
Marianne picked up the pen. She ignored the boilerplate text on the first ten sheets, flipping through the document until she reached the specific clause on the eleventh page. She read the clause detailing her refusal of spousal support and demanding exactly zero dollars for her unborn child.
The ink spelled out the permanent end of her access to the Hawthorne empire.
She pressed the ballpoint tip into the margin. The pen caught briefly on the paper before she scratched her initials next to the waiver.
She flipped to the final page. She rested her palm against the desk, leaning over the document. She signed her full name on the bottom line, pressing the pen down hard enough to indent the cheap paper beneath it.
That final signature meant she was entirely on her own.
“I am sure, Mr. Rosenberg,” Marianne said, dropping the pen beside the files. “Thank you for your help today, just make sure it gets filed.”
She unzipped her bag and pulled out the cash she had secured from the pawnshop. She peeled off ten hundred-dollar notes, the worn paper rasping against her cold thumbs. She pushed the retainer fee across the desk.
Simon picked up the cash, squaring the bills.
“It heads to the courthouse this afternoon,” Simon said. “Just a heads-up, getting a process server past the front desk at a building like Hawthorne Holdings usually takes a couple of weeks. Stay safe, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Marianne stood up, shifting her bag back onto her shoulder. She squeezed past the cabinets and made her way down the poorly lit corridor toward the lobby. She pushed the rusted aluminum door open, bracing herself against the brutal headwind tearing off the interstate.
The wind howled through the open street.
She hurried forward, stepping carefully over the frozen slush covering the sidewalk.
Eight hundred dollars remained in her bag.
The meager stack of currency felt terrifyingly small.
She couldn’t afford a single mistake now; every single dollar dictated how far she could outrun Tristan’s reach.
She trudged three blocks down the frosted concrete until the rusted awning of the local transit hub loomed ahead. The biting reek of diesel exhaust settled over the pavement as she pushed through the station’s doors.
The terminal was a cavernous, echoing space lined with rows of plastic chairs.
She ignored the seating area entirely, walking straight to a small electronics kiosk situated near the departure bays.
She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and purchased a burner phone, shoving the box deep into her coat pocket to ensure Tristan couldn’t track her.
She turned and marched toward the main ticketing counter. The clerk behind the plexiglass window looked up from a keyboard.
“I need a coach ticket heading east,” Marianne told him.
The clerk tapped the keys.
“I have a route running all the way to the coastline,” the clerk said. “Leaves from Bay Four in ten minutes.”
The ocean was as far as the remaining cash could take her. Putting as much distance as possible between her unborn daughter and Winston Hawthorne’s boardroom was the only thing that mattered now. Tristan’s money cannot trap us anymore.
“Just a one-way fare,” she muttered, paying the clerk.
The printer ground out a paper slip. She pulled the ticket from the tray and turned away from the counter. She clutched the ticket, pulling her coat tight across her bump as she marched down the concrete platform toward the idling buses.