James, they're asking for 48 hours to review. They have 24. This isn't a negotiation, Sandra. This is consequences. Understood.
I'll let them know. I hung up and walked through my house. My house now, not ours. Looked at the furniture we bought together, the photos we'd taken, the life we built. All of it feeling like a museum now.
Artifacts of something that used to exist. My phone buzz. A text from David. You okay? Define.
Okay. I type back. Fair point. Want company? Not tonight.
I need to sit with this. Okay. But I'm here if you need me. I sat down the phone and poured myself a drink. Whiskey, neat, the expensive stuff from the back of the cabinet.
Sat in my living room as afternoon faded to evening. As shadows lengthened across furniture that suddenly felt temporary. Tomorrow, Rachel would either accept my terms or face criminal charges. Tomorrow, the divorce would either settle quietly or explode into public spectacle. Tomorrow, I would either close this chapter of my life or commit to fighting it for months, maybe years.
But tonight, tonight, I just sat in the ruins of my marriage and tried to figure out who I was now that it was over. The man who'd gotten married at 22 had believed in forever, had believed that love was enough, that commitment mattered, that promises meant something. The man sitting here at 34 knew better. Knew that people lied, that vows broke, that the person you married could become a stranger without you even noticing until it was too late. I didn't know which version of myself I preferred.
The naive believer or the cynical survivor. Maybe I'd become some third thing. Someone who'd been broken and put himself back together into a different shape. Someone who'd learned that true tooth matters more than peace. That consequences matter more than forgiveness.
That sometimes the only way through pain is straight through it. My phone buzzed again. Rachel, I'll sign your agreement. Just please don't press charges. I stared at the message for a long time before responding.