Page 2 of The Perfect Divorce

“What?” I ask.

There’s no emotion in my voice because anything I felt for my husband vanished the instant I learned of his infidelity.

“Please don’t do this,” Bob says in a strained whisper.

His eyes frantically search mine, like they’re trying to lock us back in place. But there’s no place in the world for us anymore because I can’t be married to someone I don’t trust. To me trust is like glass. Once you break it, you can’t put it back together—and even if you tried, you’d end up cutting yourself in the process. So, you may as well just throw it away.

“You’re lucky the worst thing I’m doing to you is divorcing you.” My words come out soft, almost soothing.

“Is that a threat?” he asks, his face turning incredulous.

“You know I don’t make threats, Bob.”

He furrows his brow and starts to puff out his chest, challenging me, but I’ve seen enough. I shake my head as I turn on my heel and walk toward the elevator. He calls out my name several times, his voice growing quieter as I put more distance between us—or maybe it’s just losing its conviction.Good. I hope that’s the case.

Bob is really testing my patience. All I wanted was a quick and quiet divorce—kind of like his affair, I suppose. But no, he has to fight me every step of the way because he thinks this is something we’ll be able to work through. It’s not, and deep down, Bob knows that too. I’ve tried to remain civil; I really have—for the sake of our daughter, who’s still blissfully unaware of our imminent divorce. I’ve put off telling her, wanting to wait until it’s a done deal and raw emotions have waned, so the focus can be on her and only her. I seem to be the only one that cares about our daughter’s feelings and well-being.

At the elevator, I press the Down button and wait for it to appear. I can still feel Bob’s presence, but I don’t look back. I truly wish things were different. They were supposed to be different. Parenthood is supposed to make you want to be a better person, or at the very least, make youthinkyou’re a better person. Motherhood changed me just like I knew it would. But apparently, becoming a father did nothing for Bob. He didn’t only cheat on me. He cheated on our family. And he pretended to be something he’s not capable of being—decent.

The elevator dings and opens. I step inside, hit the Lobby button, and raise my chin, staring back at Bob. He stands at the end of the hallway, his eyes fixed on mine like we’re in the midst of a showdown. His face is a mixture of resentment and sorrow, but there’s a glimmer of something else, something I’ve seen before. I just can’t place it. Neither of us breaks eye contact until we’re forced to by the closing doors.

The elevator hums as it begins its descent, putting even more distance between us. We’ve been together for more than a decade but married for a little over a year. Bob’s lucky I’m not the same woman I was when I was with Adam, my first husband. If I had had children with Adam, maybe he’d still be around. Because, as I said, becoming a mother changed me, and I know they say people can’t change. They can though. At the core, we are who we are—but that doesn’t mean parts of us can’t soften or harden over time.

TWO

UNKNOWN

The room is so dark, not even shadows exist here.That’s the first thought I have when my body suddenly jerks and my eyes spring open. I blink several times, hoping they’ll adjust and find something familiar—but without light, there’s nothing. I hold my hand in front of my face, just inches from my nose, but it’s barely even visible, a gray figment that my mind hardly recognizes. The air is thick and damp, reeking of mildew and wet socks. I pull myself into a sitting position and press my hands down at my sides, feeling the slight give of a spring mattress. The coils sink under the pressure before rising back into place.

My head throbs, and a harsh wave of dizziness washes over me. I feel sick, like I could throw up at any moment. I rub my fingers against my temples, willing the memories to come back. But they won’t. They’re gone—maybe for now, maybe forever.What happened last night? Did I drink too much? Did I get my hands on some LSD or E again?

“Hello?” I call out into the void as I shift my weight and stand shakily.

The pads of my feet leave the thin mattress and settle onto a cold, hard surface. I take a cautious step forward, and that’s when I hear it—the sound of metal dragging across concrete. I try to move farther into the darkness, but my leg is jerked back abruptly. A sharp pain pricks at my ankle, the metal cuff digging into my skin.

“What the fuck?” I reach down and feel the cold shackle. The realization that it’s clamped around my ankle, locking me in place, brings on a sudden panic attack. My pulse races and my breaths come out quick and hard. I shiver despite sweat oozing from my pores. “No, no, no...help! Somebody help! Please!” The tears fall fast, and I scream until my throat is raw and all the air is out of my lungs.

Collapsing onto the mattress, I grab at the chain and yank and tug as hard as I can, shredding the skin on my hands in the process. “Come on, you piece of shit, let me go!” I scream, hoping there’s a weak link or that it’ll pull free from whatever it’s fastened to.

I crawl forward, following the chain to its source—a thick metal pole cemented into the concrete floor. Standing, I run my hands up the pole as high as I can. It must be a support beam that extends to the ceiling because I can’t reach the top of it. I return my attention to the chain, feeling my way along the length of it. Tethered like a satellite in orbit, I only have about six feet of slack to move in any direction.

With my hands out in front of me, I start to explore my surroundings. A wall appears, and I place a palm against it, following the coarse concrete until the chain cuffed around my ankle is pulled taut.

“Shit!” I grumble as my shin smacks into something hard. I lean down until the tips of my fingers touch it, feeling a smooth circular rim. It’s a bucket, a heavy-duty plastic one you’d pick up at a hardware store. I continue my search. My hands skim across a rough, grainy surface—wood, I think. Something nicks my palm, and I jerk away. Wincing in pain, I bring the wound to my mouth and suck on it until the pain subsides. The tinge of blood leaves a metallic taste in my mouth.

I return to the mattress and pull my knees into my chest and cry, rocking back and forth as I weep. My hand grazes a blanket—no, a sleeping bag. I grab it and cocoon it around my body, shielding me from the dark hell I’ve woken up in.

THREE

SARAH MORGAN

My heels click across the tile floor, sending echoes throughout the old building, continuing even after I’ve left. I pull a pair of sunglasses from my purse and slide them on, shielding my eyes from the climbing sun. My office is just a short walk away in Old Town Manassas. A lot of things in my life have changed, not just me. I’m no longer a named partner at Williamson & Morgan in DC. My choice, not anyone else’s. I was tired of having a man’s name in front of mine and equally tired of defending depraved individuals with far too much wealth. You can truly get away with anything if you have the means. I’m proof of that, and so are my former clients.

I didn’t give up practicing law though. I just gave up who I was practicing it for. My work now is all pro bono—which I prefer because it’s more of a challenge. I’m the founder and executive director of a charity called the Morgan Foundation. The wordscharityandMorganin the same sentence must sound odd, an oxymoron of sorts, but they shouldn’t. There are a lot of perks in charity work—tax benefits, a polished public image, political influence, and so much more. All of it wrapped up in a sweet bow disguised as goodwill. And the name Morgan? I’m sure you have questions about that. Why keep it? Why name my charity after it? Well, funny enough, Morgan is my maiden name. I never took Adam’s, and he never cared. His mother did, but not him. When Adam got his first book deal, he decided to use Morgan as his pseudonym—Rumplejust didn’t have the same air of sophistication. His mother was livid, but what she hated even more was when Adam made it official by legally changing his last name. So, that’s why it’s called the Morgan Foundation: becauseMorganis mine, and it always has been.

Bob still works at Williamson & Morgan, except now it’s Williamson, Miller & Associates, as he made named partner earlier this year. It took me leaving the firm for him to achieve my position, and even then, it was Williamson & Associates for a long time. It appears that we were never a match to begin with because I outmatched him.

Arriving at a brick building a few blocks away, I take the elevator to the top floor. It opens to a waiting area and a large desk shaped like a crescent moon, where Natalie, the foundation’s receptionist, sits. A glass partition wall is positioned behind the desk, separating the atrium from the rest of the office. The foundation’s name is etched into the frosted glass, the letters capitalized and bolded.

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