Morgan nodded. "Yes. Fortunately, we're willing to negotiate before taking action." I opened the screen, scrolled once, and looked up at Lauren.
"Before we negotiate, let's clarify the facts." I started reading. Not embellishment. Not interpretation.
Her own emails. Timestamped. Sent from her personal account, sometimes during office hours. Messages to Brad setting up meetings at our house.
Laughing about me being clueless while I worked late. Jokes about using the office printer for personal schedules. Morgan's expression shifted like a man watching a foundation buckle beneath him. "Ethan, that's private," Lauren started, but her voice cracked.
I kept going, calm, steady, not raising my voice. Then I switched to the financials. Her investment losses. The silent siphoning from our joint account.
The spreadsheet showing she used company time and resources to track her trades. Morgan leaned back, eyes narrowing, calculating. "Mrs. Walker, is this accurate?" Lauren swallowed.
Her facade collapsed inch by inch. "Richard, I... I can explain." But she couldn't. Not really.
Not to him. Not to me. Not to herself. I set the phone down.
"So when you say defamation, what exactly am I supposed to be lying about?" Silence. Heavy. Truth-shaped.
Morgan cleared his throat, shifting gears. "Perhaps... perhaps we should reconsider the approach here."
"I already have," I said. "On Monday, I filed for divorce. I will enter all of this into the record unless we reach a settlement that reflects reality." Lauren finally looked at me, eyes wet, a mix of shock and panic.
She'd expected anger. She'd expected emotion she could negotiate with. What she got was a man done being underestimated. Morgan adjusted his tie.
The small, involuntary gesture of a man accepting defeat. "I think we can work something out." For the first time since the beach, the power in the room didn't belong to them. It belonged to me.
The Milford Country Club Charity Gala isn't the Met Gala, but in a small coastal town, it might as well be. People dress up like they're auditioning for a life they don't live. Rented tuxes, borrowed jewelry, the whole thing held together by wine, gossip, and the illusion that everyone's happy. I wasn't planning to go.
I figured I'd stay home with the girls, watch a movie, and keep the night simple. But Maya, 12 going on 30, looked at me over dinner and said, "Dad, everyone's talking. If you don't show up, they win." She didn't mean revenge.
She meant dignity. So I went. I rented a tux, tied the bow tie myself, and walked through the tall doors of the country club like a man who belonged there. Not because of money or connections, but because he'd stopped running from his own story.
The room shifted when I entered. Not dramatically. Just small things. Conversations pausing.