I shrugged, voice level. "It is what it is. Lauren's staying with Jenna for now. Brad's around there a lot, from what I hear."
"I'm just focused on my daughters." Not a lie in the sentence. Not one exaggeration. Another guy raised his eyebrows and whistled low.
"That sounds complicated."
"There's nothing complicated about it," I said. "Just three adults making their choices. I'm making mine." Those words hung in the air like a match near dry kindling.
Within minutes, the whispering started. The kind men think you can't hear. Brad pretended he didn't notice, but his posture changed. Chin tucked.
Shoulders high. Jaw tight. A reputation in a small town is like a beam of wood. It doesn't snap loudly.
It creaks, groans, warps. People start to wonder if it's safe to lean on anymore. I didn't push anything. I didn't direct anything.
I just let the truth do its job. By the time I stepped outside into the warm night air, the shift had already begun. People weren't looking at me with pity anymore. They were looking at Brad with questions.
Questions he couldn't answer without confirming what everyone already suspected. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, letting the evening settle around me. Revenge wasn't the goal. Not really.
But fairness, accountability, letting people see what was actually happening. That was something I could live with. In Milford, you don't need to lie to destroy a house of cards. You just open a window and let the breeze in.
Morgan and Associates sat in a downtown building with more glass than personality. The kind of place that made middle-class guys like me feel like we should tuck in our shirts twice. I walked in wearing my usual clean jeans and button-down, nothing flashy. A man doesn't need a suit to walk into the truth.
The receptionist looked me over like she was trying to guess whether I was lost or delivering cables. "Do you have an appointment?" "Yes," I said. "With Richard Morgan, Lauren Walker's counsel."
Her eyebrows lifted just a fraction, but she buzzed me in. The conference room was sleek, cold, and polished, a place designed for intimidation. Lauren sat at the long table, pale makeup, stiff posture, hands clasped like she was meeting with a pastor instead of the man she'd betrayed. She didn't meet my eyes.
Next to her sat Richard Morgan, mid-50s, expensive suit. The confident posture of a man who wins arguments by talking long enough that people forget what the original point was. "Ethan," he said, tone dripping with the false warmth lawyers use when they've already decided you're the problem. "We called this meeting because we're concerned about the malicious rumors circulating in town."
"Rumors harming my client's reputation and professional standing." Lauren stared straight ahead, jaw tight. Morgan went on. "Your behavior, spreading unverified personal information, constitutes defamation."
"We'd like to resolve this amicably before it escalates." I listened, calm, hands folded, not interrupting, letting him think he was driving. When he finished, I took out my phone and placed it on the table. Not slammed.
Not dramatic. Just set it down like a tool. "Is that so?" I asked. "Defamation."