Page 46 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
Scott’s face flickers with something—disappointment? Anger that his opening gambit failed?—before he rearranges his features into wounded surprise.
“Of course. I just thought… well, you always were better with money and legal stuff. I’m completely out of my depth here.”
The lawyer—a tired-looking woman who’s clearly dealt with too many cases like this—slides papers across the table. “Mr. Thompson is facing embezzlement charges totaling one hundred eighty thousand dollars, plus penalties and legal fees. Without full restitution, he’s looking at three to five years in federalprison.”
I scan the documents with the kind of focused attention I bring to my academic work. No emotional reaction, no immediate promises to fix everything. Just a professional assessment of a complex problem.
“The money went to gambling debts?” I ask.
“Poker games, mostly. Some sports betting.” Scott’s voice carries that wheedling quality that always made my skin crawl. “I kept thinking I could win it back before anyone noticed.”
“But you didn’t.” My tone remains neutral, factual. “Instead, you stole more.”
“I borrowed it,” he corrects quickly. “I always intended to pay it back.”
“With what money?” The question is delivered without heat, but it cuts through his rationalization like a blade. “You don’t have any legitimate source of income that could cover this amount.”
I watch him flounder, searching for an answer that doesn’t exist. The old me would have already started brainstorming solutions, taking responsibility for problems I didn’t create. This version of me just waits for him to untangle his own mess.
My mouth even opens to parrot the old script—I can call the bank, I’ll move things around—and I close it, deliberately, like setting down a weapon that isn’t mine to carry.
“I need help figuring out a payment plan,” he finally admits. “The lawyer says if I can make partial restitution and show good faith…”
“I’ll help organize a payment plan because it affects the kids,” I interrupt. “Not because I owe you anything.”
The distinction is crucial, and I can see it hits him as hard as I’d hoped. I’m not rescuing him out of misplaced loyalty or guilt. I’m protecting my children from the consequences of his choices.
“Nicole, come on. We were married for twenty-fiveyears—”
“And divorced for almost two. Your financial decisions stopped being my responsibility the day you signed those papers.”
My voice carries quiet authority that transforms the entire dynamic of the room. The lawyer looks impressed. Scott’s manipulation attempts crumble against my calm professionalism.
But I can feel the effort this is costing me. The slight tension in my shoulders, the way I’m gripping my pen a little too tightly. Standing up to him is still hard work, even when I know I’m right. Under the table, Quintus’s hand briefly covers my knee—steady, anchoring.
When Scott explains why none of this is really his fault—the poker games were just bad luck, the betting was a sure thing that went wrong, the accounting irregularities were just temporary borrowing—I feel my old programming trying to kick in.
Instead, I let him talk himself into a corner while I focus on the actual numbers.
“These projections don’t work,” I say after several minutes of calculation. “Even with the most aggressive payment schedule, you’re looking at thirty years to make full restitution. The court won’t accept that, will they?” I look at his attorney.
“What are you saying?” Scott’s voice rises with panic before she can answer.
“I’m saying you need to liquidate assets. The boat, the motorcycle, the golf club membership. Everything nonessential.”
“But the boat is—”
“More important than avoiding prison?” The question shuts him up immediately.
Scott’s face tightens, eyes narrowing, and I can see him gearing up for some kind of attack. Then his expression softens, and I know exactly what’s going to happen next.
“Nicole, remember when we brought David home from the hospital? You said we’d always be a team.”
“We were—until ‘team’ meant I cleaned up your messes. That history doesn’t buy you absolution.” My pulse spikes at the familiar script tugging at me, tempting me to smooth things over. But I catch myself—this was his MO for years, and it’s not going to work anymore.
“You asked me, through our children I might add, to help you. Converting every asset you have into cash is the only way I see out of this mess. If your precious things are more important than staying out of jail, make your own choices.”
My God, did I just say that? Not only did I put my foot down, but I don’t feel any guilt. Not even a twinge! This is what growth feels like.
