Page 3 of The Perfect Divorce

“Good morning, Sarah,” Natalie says, standing from her chair with a smile. She’s young and driven, with a can-do attitude and an eagerness to please—ideal traits for someone in her position. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a low bun, and she wears a sleek all-black outfit.

“I set up your nine o’clock in the conference room,” she quickly adds.

I furrow my brow and eye my Cartier watch, noting the time. It’s twenty past nine. Natalie won’t point out that I’m late, but I am late—and that’s not like me at all. I respect time more than anything as it’s our most valuable resource. Money comes and goes, but time only goes. Not a lot of people realize that. When you give someone your time, what you’re really giving them is a piece of you, and that’s why you have to be careful with it.

“Alejandro Perez, our fiftieth reformer,” Natalie says, thumbing through a stack of papers wedged in a folder before handing it to me.

I scan the pages, familiarizing myself with the content.

“Sarah, I know you have a lot going on.” She pauses and gives me a sympathetic look. “So, if you want, I can...”

“No, I got it,” I say, cutting her off.

“Okay... Oh, and your coffee.” She plucks a large to-go cup from her desk and extends it to me.

I thank her and round the corner of the glass partition, walking farther into the Morgan Foundation. It’s airy with high ceilings, exposed beams, and large arched windows. It’s modern meets rustic with a touch of minimalism. There aren’t any cubicles because I’ve never liked them. Who wants to work in a box? That’s something we get buried in, not something we should spend our life in.

The floor plan is open concept—save for two corner offices and a large conference room set in between them. The bigger office is mine, and the other one belongs to Anne. Yes, I kept Anne around. She’s a great asset because she does what she’s told and doesn’t ask questions. Plus, it’s hard to find someone you can trust these days. Everyone has an angle, something they want and something they’re willing to give up to get it. But Anne’s not like that. Her role here is much larger than it was at Williamson & Morgan. She’s no longer my assistant. She’s the office manager and serves on the board of trustees.

Several employees take notice of my presence and pause their work, greeting me with smiles and hellos. I exchange brief pleasantries with each of them. They’re proud to work here because we make a difference. I have a staff of twenty, half of which are lawyers and paralegals. The other half supports the reform side of the Morgan Foundation, which is what really put us on the map, and it’s why we have so many patrons. Our donors are not just investing in the futures of those selected for the reform program, they’re investing in their own futures—because every criminal we reform is one less criminal that’s a drain on our system and a detriment to our society. So far, we have a perfect track record, and I hope Alejandro will continue that streak. Through the opaque glass, I can only see the back of his head as he’s seated in a conference chair facing the window.

I again flip open the folder to a mug shot of “Case Fifty.” He wears no expression, despite sporting a strong jaw and sharp, angled features. His eyes are the color of fresh sage plucked from a garden, a stark contrast to his jet-black hair. A canvas of tattoos adorns his neck, continuing underneath the opening of his shirt. I can’t help but wonder how far down they go. In another life, Alejandro could have been a model. Maybe he still can be with the help of my foundation. I skim through the rest of his file, reviewing his criminal record, work history, and application to the program, complete with a written essay.

“Hey, how’d the meeting go?” a voice calls out.

I look up from the folder to find Anne walking toward me. Her shiny bob bounces, and her A-line navy-blue dress sways with each step.

“It went as well as the last one,” I say in a hushed voice.

My personal life isn’t something I like to talk about with my employees, but Anne’s more than an employee. She’s a friend, so she knows what’s going on with me. I think Natalie does too, but that info was learned from her snooping since I certainly didn’t confide in her.

Anne shakes her head in dismay and follows me into my office, which is basically a carbon copy of what I had at my old firm. There’s a treadmill in the corner, a plush sitting area off to the side, and an oversized, overfilled bookshelf lining an entire wall. I set my stuff down and pull open a set of blinds. The view is of Baldwin Park and the Manassas Museum, half blocked by a large parking garage. It would have bothered me years ago, but it doesn’t anymore. A view is only a view until you stop appreciating it, and eventually, we all do.

“So, what happened?” Anne asks. “Is Bob still groveling?”

I swiftly pull the cord on the last set of blinds, making them snap against the window frame.

“Yeah, and he still thinks we can reconcile,” I say, turning to face Anne. “We’re making no progress because he’s treating these divorce proceedings like they’re counseling sessions.”

She rolls her eyes. “What is wrong with him?”

“Well, for starters, he’s a man.”

“True.” Anne tilts her head, giving me an amused look. “Why are men?”

I squint, waiting for her to finish.

“That’s it. That’s the whole question. Why are men?” She chuckles.

I crack a smile and shake my head. My gaze catches Alejandro’s folder lying on my desk—a reminder of where I’m supposed to be and what I’m supposed to be doing.

“I’ve got to go onboard Case Fifty.”

“I can take care of that.”

“No,” I say, retrieving the folder. “You know I like being hands-on. As the founder, it’s important that I show how invested we are in each and every case.”

“Have you seen him?” Anne takes a step back, leaning her head out my door, pretending to peer in his direction. She pulls her head back in and says, “I’m invested.”

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