Every Thursday, my wife would put on her tiniest red bikini and invite the same guy over to our

Monday morning arrived with the crisp, heavy dew of early autumn settling over the lawns.

I was sitting at the kitchen island reviewing a set of architectural blueprints for a commercial renovation project I was consulting on when a sharp knock echoed against the front door. Not the frantic, panicked pounding of a guilty wife, but the measured, deliberate rap of someone accustomed to delivering bad news for a living.

I stood up, walked down the hallway, and pulled the door open.

Standing on the porch was a tall, angular man in a sharp charcoal suit that looked entirely too warm for Raleigh's lingering humidity. He had thinning gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a leather portfolio tucked securely under his arm.

“Mr. David Miller?” he asked, his voice flat and professional.

“That’s me,” I replied, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Without a word, the man reached into his portfolio, pulled out a heavy manila envelope stamped with the seal of a well-known civil litigation firm downtown, and handed it to me.

“You’ve been served, Mr. Miller. Formal notice of contest regarding the separation agreement executed on Thursday last week. My client, Elena Miller, contends that the document was signed under duress and physical coercion.”

I looked down at the envelope, then back up at the lawyer. A faint, knowing smile touched the corners of my mouth.

“Physical coercion?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s a creative phrasing for getting caught red-handed in a swimming pool.”

The lawyer didn't blink. He had clearly represented clients in far more ridiculous domestic disputes than this.

“You’ll find all the relevant hearing dates and motion requirements inside the packet,” he said smoothly, turning on his heel and stepping off the porch toward a silver sedan parked at the curb. “Have a good morning, Mr. Miller.”