Page 133 of Broken Trails
This correspondence serves as formal notification of Mr. De Luca’s intent to initiate proceedings seeking a reassessment of the current property settlement agreement between you both, as originally filed during your family law proceedings.
Alleged assault? The fucking gall on this man. Anger boils through me as I skim through the rest, but as I do, something catches my eye.
Specifically, our client will be seeking a greater than 50% share of marital property, and any associated assets and contents he believes were unlawfully withheld or misappropriated. Should you choose not to engage in direct negotiation or fail to respond to this notice within 72 hours of receipt, we reserve the right to initiate court proceedings.
What. The. Fuck.
I can practically hear Liam’s smug tone behind every word, every veiled threat dressed up in legal formality. He wantsmorethan the agreed fifty per cent share? Over my dead fucking body. My hands shake. No, my whole body is fucking shaking, and my chest hollows out just as the crowd erupts again.
Lap four.
Michael streaks by in a blur of speed and light. I want to be present. I want to focus. But the fear is clawing up fast and merciless—cold, familiar, and so fucking loud. My phone vibrates again.
Unknown number:By now, I assume you’ve read the fucking email. Best you head back to Sydney ASAP. Otherwise, it’s not just you I’ll be dragging down.
Unknown number:Your little boyfriend should have thought before he laid a hand on me. My dash cam picked up everything from that night.
Unknown number:So unless you want him locked up for aggravated assault, I suggest you pack your shit and come back.
Unknown number:Come alone.
My stomach drops. The breath in my lungs whooshes out before I can process everything. The messages stare back at me from the screen, glowing white and cruel in my hand. I read it again. And again. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here.
Dash cam.
Aggravated assault.
Lock him up.
My lungs tighten. My vision tunnels in and out, the edges fuzzy and unreal. He’s bluffing. He has to be bluffing. But what if he’snot? What if Michael gets dragged through the courts? What if he gets arrested—charged—all because I walked away and hurt Liam’s little feelings? My hand shakes so violently, the phone nearly slips from my grip.
“Zoe?” Imogen’s voice is close. Gentle, but alert. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t respond.
“Zoe,” she says again, her hand brushing my arm, firmer now. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Because I have. Only he’snota ghost. He’s very much alive and still reaching for me with those same manipulative, sugar-coated claws. And this time, he wants Michael.
I can’t breathe.
Across the bench, Isla’s picked up on the tension. Her smile dims. “Everything okay?”
The less they know, the better. I can’t drag them into this. Into him. I manage a laugh. It’s hollow, forced through cracked lips. “Just… work. Nothing major.”
Isla snorts. “So that means it is something major, right?”
Imogen doesn’t laugh. Her eyes stay pinned to me, watching too closely. Reading me too well. Just like Michael. I paste on a smile and tuck the phone into my jacket pocket. “I’m fine.”
Commotion breaks, and the roar of the crowd surges like a wave. The commentator’s voice booms through the loudspeakers, frantic with excitement.
“Final lap—Price is second. Wait—he’s making a move! He’s gaining!”
People are on their feet—screaming, clapping, vibrating with something electric and raw. Hope squeals from all the commotion, and Gracie kicks her tiny boots against Xavier’s ribs. Isla lifts Callie onto her hip, bouncing her excitedly. And Joseph—God, Joseph—perched high on Bradley’s shoulders, is shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Uncle Mick! Uncle Mick!” The sight nearly wrecks me. It’s so fucking adorable, I have to blink hard to keep my emotions from spilling over. This little crowd—this rowdy, joyful mess—they’re his. And for a fleeting second, they feel like mine too.
I turn, eyes snapping to the track. And somehow, through the blur of colours and bodies and speed, I find him. Leaning into the curve, body low, the bike an extension of him. Engine snarling, tyres biting into the dirt, dust flying behind him in streaks. His form is steady. Locked in, just like he practised. Every inch of him is power, control, and focus. My throat tightens, and my lips part, yet no sound comes out. Just a silent chant in my head, full of hope and desperation.
