CHARLOTTE - SIX MONTHS AGO
I am brave.I am strong. I am almost free.
It’s the mantra I’ve been repeating since walking into this courthouse—I knew he was here, behind a closed door, waiting for another chance to break me down.
“It’s time,” my attorney, Gail, says quietly, guiding me into a small meeting room just off the courtroom hall. We could’ve met at either law office, but she insisted on neutral ground. A silent peace offering to the monster now sitting across from me, lipscurled into a smirk. Terrance and I have been married for seven years—seven years of hell.
The wooden table feels too close, like it’s closing in on me. His stare pins me in place. The same one that’s haunted my nightmares. I try not to look, but my eyes drift back, drawn to him despite everything. There’s something different this time. Not dominance. Not smugness. Fear, maybe—just a flicker, but it’s there. The same fear I wore for seven years.
“Are we ready to begin?” his attorney asks, slicing through the silence.
Terrance inhales, like he might speak. But he doesn’t.
Gail squares her shoulders, “Has your client reviewed our latest offer?”
His attorney glances at the copy she handed over, “We have.”
“And?”
“No deal.”
Gail scoffs, disbelief sharp in the quiet room. “It’s a fair settlement, especially after the last seven years.”
“You’re asking for twice the legal limit,” he counters, frustration creeping in. “California law allows three and a half years of alimony. You're demanding seven.”
“She’s earned every minute of it,” Gail says, steady as ever. Terrance doesn’t react. He stares past us, unfocused, like the conversation barely registers. I study him. Still handsome but worn down. Hollow. Pale. Sharp cheekbones. Dark circles beneath his eyes. Gail’s voice snaps me back.
“Your client’s history of domestic violence says otherwise.”
“Hearsay,” his attorney snaps. “You can’t prove it.”
Gail opens her file and spreads a stack of documents and photos across the table. Terrance turns his head away, avoiding the bruises, the medical reports, the truth of what he’s done.
But I don’t look away. Not anymore.
The only reason I’m even sitting in this room today is because of a doctor who refused to pretend it was just another accident. Who didn’t look the other way when I came in barely breathing, my ribs shattered, my eye swollen shut. He called the police that night—finally—and helped get me into a domestic violence shelter where Terrance couldn’t reach me.
He gave me the evidence I needed to survive. To fight back. To be here, right now, staring Terrance in the face while he tries to pretend the past doesn’t exist.
But the photos don’t lie.
And this time, neither do I.
“Is this proof enough?”
“Anything could’ve caused those. Accidents happen, Gail.”
“Do they, Richard?” she says coolly. “You can deny it all you want, but the evidence is right here. Either your client agrees to the spousal support she has asked for, or these go to the judge. They’ll become public record. And with your client’s family name? I’m sure you can imagine what that’ll do to their spotless reputation.”
Terrance’s face contorts with fury, his features pulled taut like a spring ready to snap.
“You fucking bitch. You think you can ruin my life?” The words land like a blow. “You wanted it.”
I roll my eyes—classic deflection—the same tired script. Blame the victim, dodge the guilt. The room bristles with tension until Gail speaks, calm and composed.
“Mrs. Roberts endured years of abuse,” she says evenly. “Dragging this before a judge won’t end well for your client. She’s offering a clean break, far more generous than what he deserves. Against my advice, I might add. With the evidence we have, she could take everything. This is the deal. Take it, or we go to court. Your move.”
“You think you can extort me over a few bruises?” Terrance spits before his attorney can stop him, all but sealing his fate.
