7. No Way Back #2
I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag, ready to make my intentions legally airtight.
The frosted glass door across the waiting room swung open. A rumpled man in a dress shirt leaned his shoulder against the frame, holding a clipboard.
“Wren Gallagher?” he called out.
“That’s me,” I said.
I stood up, hoisting the bag higher on my shoulder. I walked past the row of connected plastic chairs and the tired mother with her toddler.
“Come on back,” the lawyer said. He stepped aside to clear the threshold. “Have a seat right there, and let’s go over this intake sheet.”
The private office was even smaller than the waiting area and smelled of old paper. The lawyer, Marty Cohen, shoved a filing cabinet shut with a clatter. He pushed past a stack of case files and dropped into the chair behind his desk.
I took the single client seat across from him, leaving my coat buttoned and my hands resting in my lap.
Marty picked up the intake sheet I had quickly filled out in the waiting room. The thin copy paper rustled as he flipped to the second page. He read over my answers, tracking the lines I had hurried through, before stopping to frown at the page.
“I’m reading this right?” Marty lowered the paper and stared across the desk. “You’re married to Cassian Kensington? The CEO of Kensington Holdings?”
“Yes,” I said. “I need the papers drafted and filed today.”
Marty just shook his head. “This firm handles standard separations, Mrs. Kensington. You’re talking about a family that owns half the commercial real estate in the state. They employ armies of corporate lawyers.”
“I’m not asking you to litigate their holdings,” I said. “I am asking you to sever me from the Kensingtons.”
He looked at me, then down at the paper. The disbelief on his face made perfect sense.
Walking away from a billionaire without fighting for a single cent looked like insanity to an outsider.
Any standard lawyer would view the Kensington estate as a winning lottery ticket.
But taking Cassian’s money meant remaining permanently chained to Octavia’s spite and Arthur’s suffocating control.
Wealth was the only language they understood.
Voluntarily surrendering my right to marital assets severed their only avenue of influence. It guaranteed they would never have a claim over my daughter’s future. I refused to let his family buy their way into my child’s life.
“Mrs. Kensington, your husband is a billionaire,” Marty said, leaning back in his chair. “Even with a strict prenup, any decent lawyer could negotiate a massive settlement or years of spousal support for you, so are you sure you don’t want me to fight this?”
I didn’t shrink back from his warning. I leaned forward in the chair, pressing directly into his space. I placed both palms flat against the cluttered edge of his desk, holding my ground.
“I am sure.” I refused to blink. “I want the divorce petition to state I am rejecting all spousal support, waiving any claim to marital assets, and demanding zero dollars in child support.”
Marty blinked, taken aback by the flat certainty in my voice. He looked at my hands braced on his desk, then up to my eyes.
“Zero dollars in child support?” Marty asked, glancing at my pregnant stomach. “Ma’am, raising a kid costs money. If he has those kinds of resources, he owes this baby financial support at the bare minimum.”
“If he pays for her, his family will believe they own her,” I said. “I am not putting a price tag on my daughter. Draft the zero-dollar clause.”
He met my stare in silence. Marty blew out a breath and tossed the intake sheet aside.
“A judge might throw out a zero-dollar child support clause if you ever apply for state aid down the line,” he warned.
“But I will draft the petition to explicitly waive alimony and assets, and we will file for a zero-dollar amount in child support anyway to make your intentions legally bulletproof.”
I kept my hands planted on the wood, watching the realization sink in. He turned to his keyboard, rapidly typing up the specific waivers required for my escape.
The printer on the corner of the desk powered on. The machine let out a grinding noise, engaging the paper tray. Four crisp sheets of legal paper rolled out of the feeder into the quiet room. Marty pulled the warm pages from the tray and tapped the bottom edges against his desk to align them.
“Read over the stipulations one last time before you commit to this,” Marty said.
He slid the stack across the desk, keeping his hand resting on the top corner.
“I am legally bound to warn you that rejecting the prenup payout leaves you with zero safety net.”
I looked down at the bold black ink. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
I scanned the specific clauses he had drafted, checking the explicit waivers for spousal support and the division of assets.
The legal tether to Octavia and Arthur’s venomous world sat in front of me, reduced to a few paragraphs of dry jargon.
“The safety net was a cage,” I said. “This is exactly what I wanted.”
“Sign here, here, and initial the zero-dollar demand on page four,” Marty said, tapping the specific dotted lines. “Once I file this with the county court, you really can’t undo it easily.”
I picked up the pen from the desk. I wrapped my fingers tightly around it. I pressed the tip into the signature line, making sure the ink was legible. I signed my name, severing myself from the Kensington empire.
“I have absolutely no intention of ever undoing it,” I said, setting the pen aside. “Thank you for your time and your discretion, Mr. Cohen.”
I opened my bag, reaching for the pawn shop cash. I pulled out the stack and counted out his flat fee, sliding the bills across the desk.
Marty picked up the money, shaking his head slightly as he looked down at the bills. He opened a lower drawer and dropped the cash inside.
“I’ll file it today, but it might take a few weeks for a process server to get past the front desk at a place like Kensington Holdings,” Marty said. “Good luck out there, Mrs. Kensington.”
“It’s Gallagher,” I replied.
I hitched my bag onto my shoulder and stood up.
I slipped past the filing cabinets and walked out of the private office.
The waiting room was still packed with exhausted clients and lit by buzzing tube lights, but I didn’t stop.
I pushed through the front doors, leaving the stale air of the law office behind.
The freezing wind hit me instantly, but I ducked my head and kept walking. I had eight hundred dollars left from the sale, plus my saved tips. I hurried past the pawn shop and pushed my way into a dingy convenience store at the end of the strip mall.
I walked straight to the counter and purchased a cheap prepaid burner phone.
I loaded it with a minimal minute plan, paying in cash.
My old designer smartphone would act as a homing beacon as soon as Cassian noticed I was missing.
He would weaponize his security detail to hunt me down, assuming his name still gave him absolute authority over where I went.
Ditching the old device for the burner phone severed his reach.
Leaving the convenience store, I headed two blocks south to the local transit station.
The exhaust from idling engines clouded the freezing air, mixing with the sharp scent of road salt.
I stepped up to the ticket window and requested a one-way fare on the Greyhound bus heading up the coast. It was as far as my remaining cash could take us.
The distance from the city would give me the head start I needed to protect her.
The clerk slid a freshly printed ticket under the glass. I collected my change and shoved the receipt into my pocket. I walked away from the transit station window, pocketing the phone and ticket before pulling my coat tight as I waited for the bus.