Page 88 of Broken Trails
“I dunno. You tell me.” His gaze lingers. I can feel it tugging at me, steady and patient. I flick my eyes to his just for a second, but it’s too much.
I shift forward and reach for the radio dial. “What music shall we listen to?” I mumble the question.
Static crackles, followed by some slow indie track that does nothing to settle the nerves twisting low in my stomach. Michael stretches out in his seat. “Don’t avoid the question.”
“I’m not,” I lie, fiddling with the volume. “I’m just trying to survive the next two hours without being grilled.”
“I haven’t even started yet.”
I shoot him a look. “That’s not reassuring.”
He laughs, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re tightly wound today, Freckles.”
Poker face. Game face. Whatever the hell kind of face I’m supposed to have on when walking into a meeting to fight for my life, I put it on. I smooth my skirt, and Michael opens the door for me.
I’d parked just off York Street, right near the law offices Jeff booked for our meeting. The moment my heel hit the pavement, Michael was there, coming around to intercept me with a look that told me he’d been waiting for this moment since I told him I didn’t want backup. He tilts his head at me. “Do you want me to come in?”
“No. I’ll be fine,” I say, firmly.
His hands lift in surrender, but there’s no bite in his expression. “Alright. I’ll be out here.”
The boardroom is too white, too pristine, too polished to be anything but unnerving. Jeff sits beside me, calm and composed, folder in hand. Liam’s lawyer—a man who looks too smug to be legally sound—sits across from us, and next to him, Liam. Looking as relaxed as if we were grabbing brunch. Tan skin. Rolex. That expensive cologne that I used to love, which now makes my skin itch. The negotiation begins the way these things always do—pleasantries, false smiles, and a rundown of “proposed settlements.”
Liam wants the apartment, claiming I don’t need it since I’ve been in Wattle Creek. Jeff flips calmly through his papers. “Zoe contributed to the mortgage. Her name is on the loan.”
Liam scoffs. “This is ridiculous.”
The lawyer beside him nods. “My client is willing to buy out Ms. De Luca’s share.”
“Not for the amount you’ve offered,” Jeff counters. “That’s less than half the market value.”
They argue. Back and forth. Cold facts thrown like knives. I don’t speak. Not yet. My hands stay clasped under the table, nails digging into my palm. Until Liam looks at me.
“You’re really doing this?” he asks. “Tearing everything apart over what, pride?”
“No,” I say, voice steady. “Over survival.”
His mouth twitches. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Jeff steps in, voice smooth and even, offering figures, dates, statements. Pages of proof spread out on the table between us. Evidence that I didn’t fabricate this life. That I wasn’t just Liam’s accessory. That I worked, contributed, endured. I built something. Even if it’s in ruins now
“The affidavits outline the timeline of events,” he says, sliding a folder across the polished table. “Including the infidelity, the twelve-month separation while both parties remained under the same roof, and the eventual emotional and physical breakdown of the marriage. There was no intimacy, no financial interdependence, and no continued relationship. They also clearly state the reasons Ms. De Luca remained in the property during that time.”
Liam barely glances at the documents. His lip curls as he leans back in the leather chair, fingers drumming against the table. “She’s fucking lying. This is bullshit. Amanda means nothing,” he sneers. “She was just a fuck. Nothing else.”
I scoff, the sound sharp and unfiltered. Because if the way he speaks about women isn’t enough to go running, I don’t know what is. No remorse. No shame. Just venom wrapped in entitlement.
Jeff calmly turns the papers around. “We have receipts. Testimony. Witnesses. She’s not lying.”
More back-and-forth. More technicalities. Jeff and Liam’s lawyer volley proposals and counter-proposals until we finally arrive at a tentative agreement. Liam will buy me out of the apartment. I’ll take what I’m owed and walk away. Once the documents are drawn up and signed, the divorce can be finalised. But of course, he can’t just let it end.
Not without twisting the knife.
“I’m not signing shit,” he mutters, voice low. “Not until we have a proper conversation.”
A proper conversation? My laugh is dry and humourless. We haven’t had aproper conversationsince I left, and even that night? I wouldn’t call it talking. It was more like shouting and silence, and slamming doors. But hey, I guess there’s no better place to finally unpack the mess than a table surrounded by lawyers and legal pads.
“You want a conversation?” My voice cracks through the room like a whip. “After all the lies? Cheating? The manipulation? You want to sit down and chat like we’re equals now?”
