Chapter 3 - The Illusion of Victory
The next three weeks were a masterclass in psychological endurance. Per Jerome’s instructions, I played the part of the devastated, broken wife to perfection. I moved into a modest, furnished apartment downtown, ignoring the barrage of aggressive text messages Scott sent me daily.
“Where are the signed papers, Avery? Stop dragging this out. Don't be pathetic.”
“Kayla and I are picking out nursery furniture. You’re holding up my life.”
“If I have to get my lawyers to force your signature, I’ll make sure you pay my legal fees.”
I saved every single text. Every cruel taunt was just another nail in his meticulously crafted coffin.
At work, however, I channeled my silent fury into pure ambition. The presentation Scott had tried to ruin? I had paused the meeting, stepped out, taken his soul-crushing phone call, and then walked back into that boardroom and delivered the pitch of my life. My boss, a terrifyingly sharp woman named Brenda, had noticed my pale face but said nothing. When the contract was finalized a week later, she called me into her office and handed me a promotion to Senior Vice President.
“I don't know what happened in the hallway that day, Avery,” Brenda had said, pouring us both a glass of scotch. “But a woman who can take a bullet to the chest and still close a multi-million dollar deal is a woman I want running my executive team.”
I had the career. Now, I just needed the justice.
The day of the deposition arrived with a heavy, oppressive summer heat. Jerome had rented a sprawling conference room in a high-rise building overlooking the city. I arrived early, wearing a tailored navy suit that made me feel like I was wearing armor. My hair was pulled back, my makeup flawless. I did not look like a victim.
At exactly 10:00 AM, the heavy glass doors swung open, and Scott swaggered in.
He was wearing a custom-tailored Italian suit—undoubtedly purchased on credit, banking on his impending inheritance. A heavy gold watch gleamed on his wrist. Beside him was Kayla, her pregnant belly just beginning to show beneath a tight, expensive designer dress. She carried a Birkin bag that cost more than my first car. They looked like a couple who had already won the lottery.
Scott paused when he saw me. He had expected me to look haggard, tearful, perhaps begging for a scrap of his affection. When his eyes swept over my composed, icy demeanor, a flicker of unease crossed his face before he quickly masked it with a sneer.
“Nice suit,” Scott mocked as he pulled out a chair for Kayla. “Did you buy that with the severance package I’m not going to give you?”
Kayla giggled softly, resting her hand protectively over her stomach. “Be nice, Scotty. She’s having a hard time.”
I didn't blink. I didn't speak. I just watched them with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a particularly repulsive insect.
Scott’s lawyer, a cheap, loud-mouthed attorney named Vance, slapped his briefcase onto the table. “Let’s make this quick. My client is offering a standard dissolution. No alimony, no division of assets since the house is in his name, and a clean break. Sign it today, and we won't pursue you for the delays.”
Jerome calmly turned on the digital recording device in the center of the table. “State your names for the record,” he said smoothly.
After the formalities, Jerome leaned forward, his hands folded neatly over a thick manila folder. “Mr. Hastings, you are under oath. You are asserting that this marriage broke down due to irreconcilable differences, and that there was no fault or infidelity on your part prior to your filing for divorce. Is that correct?”
Scott rolled his eyes. “Yes. We just grew apart. It happens. Avery was obsessed with her career. I moved on.”
“And when exactly did you ‘move on’ with Ms. Jensen?” Jerome asked, his voice deceptively mild.
Scott shifted in his seat. “A few weeks ago. After we separated. After I asked Avery to leave.”
Kayla nodded enthusiastically. “It was a whirlwind romance. Destiny, really.”
Jerome let the silence hang in the air for five agonizing seconds. He looked at Scott, then at Kayla, and finally, he opened the manila folder.
May you like
“Destiny,” Jerome mused. “That’s a beautiful word. Let’s talk about destiny, Mr. Hastings. And let’s talk about perjury.”
---
