Page 158 of Ink Me Three Times
Freddie sits down across from her. Slides the envelope across the table.
“This is it,” he says, voice flat. “Take the money. Sign the papers. Then leave.”
No apology. No explanation. Just the line, drawn and solid.
Trina picks up the envelope as if it’s radioactive. Opens it. Starts flipping through the paperwork with those manicured fingers, eyes narrowing the further she reads. She snorts.
“This is a joke, right?” she says, looking up at him. “You want me to be goneforever? You think this is enough for that?”
“It’s more than enough,” Freddie says, calm but sharp. “It’s final.”
She laughs, mean and bitter. “You think I’m gonna walk away from my daughter for this? What kind of monster do you think I am?”
“The kind who already did,” he says. “Three years ago. You don’t get to play mother now because there’s money involved.”
Her jaw tightens. “You don’t get to take her from me for basically nothing. I came back for a fresh start, to clear my debts… but ifthisis all you’re giving me…”
Freddie leans in slightly. Just enough to make it clear he’s not here to negotiate. “You already gave her up. I’m just making it legal.”
That lands. Hard.
Trina’s face goes tight, controlled, but I can see it, the crack in the mask. The twitch in her lip, the way her eyes go glossy before she blinks it away as if it doesn’t count.
“I want more,” she says, chin up. “Double this. Then I’ll go.”
“You erased yourself,” Freddie snaps. Voice of iron. “I don’t care if you want more. You get what’s offered. Take the check, sign the papers, and go back to whatever bar or boyfriend or scam you crawled out of.”
She bristles. “You think you’re the hero in all this? You’re not. You’re just a bitter asshole with a savior complex.”
Freddie smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “Maybe. But I’m the one she calls Dad.”
Silence drops between them, thick and mean. Trina looks down at the paperwork again. The check. Her mouth twists, it must taste bad.
And then… that flicker in her eyes. Calculation.
She hates it. Hateshim. Hates this. But she hates being broke more.
She signs.
Quick. Cold. Barely glances at the pen before she presses it to the paper. The sound of it, pen on paper, is louder than it should be.
Freddie doesn’t even blink. Just sits there, spine straight, watching her trade away custody as if she’s signing a receipt.
She stands. Grabs the check. Doesn’t look at him again.
No goodbye. No last jab. Just the sound of her heels on cheap tile, getting quieter with every step.
Freddie watches the door for a long time after it closes.
It doesn’t feel like victory. It feels more cleaning up the last of a long, slow disaster.
We go for a drink, because what else do you do?
The bar’s mostly empty. Rain still coming down outside as if the sky’s got unfinished business. Freddie’s drink is whiskey,neat. Mine’s a beer. Mitchell orders something with tequila and will regret it.
We don’t toast. Just sit there in a row, waiting for the weight to hit.
Mitchell finally breaks the silence. “You okay?”
