“I don’t think what we’re asking for is beyond the realm of reason.” This from the attorney in an expensive suit and tie. Although he is working for my ex, I can’t help but think about what the attorney looks like without his shirt. I have a feeling, deep, deep down, that he is very fuckable.
“It’s quite respectable,” he says with a hint of a smirk.
“Bullshit.” I mutter and innocently examine my nails. Vivian kicks me under the table but I don’t acknowledge it. That would require me to look like I give a shit and shatter the illusion I’m concocting.
“We both know that isn’t true.” Vivian bares her teeth in an unfriendly grin. She looks like a shark in pinstripes, which is precisely why I hired her. “There is a long-documented relationship and partnership between my client and yours. What you are offering is laughable at best.”
“Documented how, exactly?” the lawyer smirks again. “The internet? We both know a few tabloid photos aren’t admissible in court.”
“We’re not in court, Mr. Stevens. We’re in mediation. Surely you remember there is a difference?” Vivian turns to cock an eyebrow at our mediator, a staunch older woman with a severe librarian bun and laser beams for eyeballs.
The woman doesn’t say anything and scratches a few notes in her notepad. If I was footing the bill for this nonsense, I’d be livid. It’s my ex’s money, David’s bank account, the one under lock and key, that was responsible though, which means I don’t mind wasting as many hours as margaritas I am waiting to drink.
“This all comes back down to your client’s insistence,” the sexy asshole lawyer says, “that there be no prenuptial agreement. My client recommended it for protection of all parties and your client declined it. By law, she isn’t entitled to anything beyond what we are offering. You won’t find better with a judge.”
“Bullshit.” Vivian and I say in tandem. She comes off less bitter than I do.
“A marriage isn’t a business contract, Mr. Stevens.”
“Quite the contrary, Mrs. West. That’s exactly what it is.”
Repeat. Ad nauseam. Every day until I fall over dead. The sexy asshole in the suit sits across an over-glossed table and rattles off reasons why I should be thankful they are offering pennies left in the corners of a cavernous bank account. My shark lawyer calls him an asshat and tells him to try again. Robolibrarian glares at everyone and sighs heavily because no one listens to her.
And then there’s David, my ex. I don’t look at him because I don’t want to ruin my shoes. At this rate, who knows when I’d be able to afford a new pair. He’s staring, though. Intently. Like a lion on the savanna who can’t quite determine if he’s hungry or horny.
Knowing David, it’s both. He’s a terrible lion, among other things.
We’ve been separated for over a year and unhappy for much, much longer. The divorce papers have been long drawn up. But David never signed. And now here he is, dragging me into mediation and demanding a rewrite before he’ll sign. Because in a vulnerable, drunken low point of my life a few weeks ago, David showed up on my doorstep and I was dumb enough to sleep with him.
Now he’s using that mistake to reopen the settlement. Claiming that we shouldn’t be divorced at all, and that our marriage is active and loving and something to be cherished.
“Kate is instrumental to the McArthur brand and you’ve been unable to provide any reasonable proof she isn’t.” Vivian taps her pen cap against the yellow legal pad resting between her lap and the table’s edge. Instead of notes about the mediation session, she scribbles pictures of David losing his head in a variety of ways.
David is abnormally silent. His eyes drag across my skin, leaving me prickling and uncomfortable. Once, it was exquisitely sexy. He was enraptured by my presence and I felt confident, strong, wild. Now I feel like a bug under a large magnifying glass.
Eric Stevens, bane of my existence, leans his elbows on the table so his well-tailored sleeves strain against his muscles. This, despite all the raging bullshit erupting at the table, where allegedly apathetic third parties argue over my livelihood like it was a toddler soccer match, is my favorite part of the whole thing.
“What do you want, Kate?” David interrupts my spiraling daydreams. “Why is nothing ever good enough?”
For the tiniest moment, I falter. We didn’t talk anymore. Words dried up between us the day I found him cavorting through my office naked with the maid.
“David.” His name sours my tongue but my features remain smooth as silk. “I want you to jump off a cliff and eat shit, you miserable motherfu—”