Chapter 3

The next morning, at precisely nine AM, I sat in my lawyer's plush, impersonal office. Ms. Albright, a sharp woman in her fifties, offered me coffee. I declined. We waited.

Nine-fifteen. Nine-thirty. No Isabella.

Ms. Albright raised an eyebrow. "Standard procedure for a certain type of spouse, Mr. Miller. Delay, deflect, make it difficult."

"She agreed to sign," I said, though the words felt hollow even to me.

"Agreement and action are two different species, especially when narcissism is involved."

At ten, Ms. Albright's assistant informed us that Isabella's office had called. Ms. Rossi was unavoidably detained in an emergency board meeting. She sent her apologies. And a request to reschedule.

I almost laughed. "Unavoidably detained." Right.

"Don't worry, Jake," Ms. Albright said, her tone practical. "Texas is a no-fault state. Her signature is a courtesy, not a requirement, if she chooses to be uncooperative. We can serve her. Or, even better, with the new e-filing system, if she fails to respond after being served, we can move for a default judgment."

That sounded like a plan. I felt a sliver of hope.

I spent the rest ofr the day at a cheap motel, not wanting to be at my new, sparsely furnished apartment when Isabella inevitably decided to make an appearance. My new place, a small one-bedroom near Zilker, was paid for with a down payment from Mr. Harrison's "fresh start fund." It was mine. Untainted.

My phone buzzed late that afternoon. Isabella.

"Jake, where are you? I went by your old office, they said you quit." Her voice was laced with an unfamiliar note. Not quite concern, more like irritation at an inconvenience.

"I did," I said. "And it's not my old office anymore, is it? It's yours."

"Don't be difficult. I have those papers. I can sign them. Where can we meet?" Then, a softer tone, the one she used when she wanted to manipulate. "I also have something for you. A gift."

A gift. Right. "No need," I said. "My lawyer filed everything online this afternoon. You'll be served soon. Consider this your notification." I pictured her face, the surprise, the anger. It gave me a small, grim satisfaction. "And I'm busy right now, Isabella. I'm shopping for a new couch." I hung up before she could reply.

That night, I was wrestling with a flat-pack bookshelf in my new living room when there was a hard, insistent knock on the door. I knew who it was before I even looked through the peephole.

Isabella. Standing there, tapping an expensive shoe, a designer handbag slung over her shoulder. And something else. The faint, cloying scent of Alex's cologne clinging to her.

I opened the door. "What do you want, Isabella?"

She pushed past me, into the small apartment, her eyes sweeping over the bare walls, the boxes, my half-assembled bookshelf. "This is where you live now? It's...cozy." The word dripped with disdain.

"It's mine," I said. "And you're trespassing." I made a point of looking at my watch. "I'm also changing the locks tomorrow."

She ignored me, placing a small, velvet-wrapped box on my cheap IKEA coffee table. "I told you I had a gift."

I didn't even glance at it. "I don't want it."

"Just open it, Jake."

With a sigh, I picked it up. Inside, nestled on satin, was a Swiss watch. An expensive one. Identical to the one she'd given me for our first anniversary, the one I'd left in her jewelry box when I moved out. A replacement. A meaningless, insulting gesture. She always thought money or expensive trinkets could smooth over any crack, any betrayal. She learned nothing.