Chapter 7 - The Final Ultimatum
Two weeks later, the final mediation session for the divorce was scheduled at Victoria Vance’s downtown law offices.
I arrived ten minutes early, dressed in a sharp, tailored ivory pantsuit, my hair styled in sleek waves, and wearing a pair of crimson designer stilettos that clicked sharply against the marble floors. I looked nothing like the exhausted, broken shadow of a woman who had stood on that patio weeks ago. I looked like a woman who owned the world.
When Julian walked into the conference room, he looked like a ghost of his former self. He had lost weight, his skin was sallow, and his expensive suit hung loosely off his shoulders. He hadn't showered properly, and the arrogant swagger that had defined him for a decade was completely gone.
He didn't look at me as he took a seat across the table. His eyes remained glued to the polished wood surface.
Victoria slid a final settlement document toward him.
“Read it carefully, Mr. Miller,” Victoria instructed coldly. “These are your final terms.”
Julian picked up the pages with trembling fingers. As his eyes scanned the clauses, his breath hitched.
“You’re leaving me... nothing?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You’re taking the primary residence, the secondary investment property, the vehicles, and full custody adjudication unless I agree to supervised visitation?”
“You abandoned your responsibilities as a father for two years while playing stock trader, Julian,” I spoke up, my voice cutting through the quiet room like a scalpel. “And the moment I needed a partner, you chose to use my exhaustion as a weapon for your amusement. You don't deserve the kids, and you certainly don't deserve a single cent of the empire I built while you slept.”
“Maren, please,” Julian choked out, a pathetic tear spilling over his lower eyelid as he looked up at me with red, swollen eyes. “We were a family. Remember when we first moved into that starter home? Remember how happy we were before the kids, before the stress?”
“I remember every single sacrifice I made, Julian,” I replied, leaning forward, resting my palms flat on the table. “And I remember the exact second you killed whatever love was left in my heart. Sign the papers.”
He stared at me for ten agonizing seconds, searching my face for a shred of weakness, a crumb of mercy.
He found nothing. Only ice.
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With a shaking hand, Julian picked up a Montblanc pen—a pen I had bought him for our fifth anniversary—and signed his name to the bottom of the document.
The divorce was final.
