⇚ 8 ⇛

❚ ❙ The Divorce From Hell ❙ ❚

"I'm going to prison."

Victor did not look up from his coffee.

"Good morning to you too."

"I'm serious."

"You say that every morning."

"Because every morning I become more capable."

Victor sighed quietly and continued organizing paperwork across his desk with the exhausted precision of a man one inconvenience away from spiritual collapse.

Three days.

I had survived three entire days at The Noodle Barn.

That was deeply concerning.

I should have left already.

Instead, I had somehow become involved in:
- legal paperwork
- communal dinners
- emotional support dogs
- and whatever psychological warfare Amy considered a personality.

Worse?

I still hadn't properly followed the Hawthorne lead.

Every hour spent here was dangerous.

Comfort was dangerous.

Attachment was fatal.

Yet somehow, here I was at nine in the morning reorganizing Victor Hart's catastrophically ugly filing system instead of disappearing into another city with a fake passport and unresolved trauma like a normal person.

"Why am I here?" I asked flatly.

"You volunteered."

"I absolutely did not."

"You said and I quote, 'your filing system makes me physically aggressive.'"

"It does."

Victor pointed toward a collapsing stack of folders balanced beside his desk.

"Then help me fix it."

"I hate authority."

"You also hate inefficiency."

Unfortunately true.

I glared at the folders before sitting opposite him dramatically.

Victor's office had become irritatingly familiar over the past few days.

The cracked bookshelf.
The dying plants.
The expensive coffee machine somehow surviving among complete chaos.
The old couch with a folded blanket proving he definitely slept here sometimes despite pretending otherwise.

The office reflected Victor perfectly.

Organized disorder.

Functional exhaustion.

Comfortable, but not luxurious.

Unlike my family, who decorated wealth like a threat, the Hart family's success felt lived in. Earned. Warm.

The Barn itself had been bought years ago after Victor's grandmother won a wrongful death settlement following his mother's death. Granny Kim owned the flower café next door. Xavier owned the pub. Together, they built something steady from grief instead of letting it consume them.

I still did not understand people like that.

My family inherited grief and sharpened it into violence.

Victor's family inherited grief and built a place where strangers felt safe enough to sing badly after midnight.

Disturbing behaviour.

Personally, Victor himself was not poor.

Just financially irresponsible.

He undercharged clients, took impossible cases, and spent far too much energy trying to save people who usually could not save themselves.

Idiot.

I opened the first folder.

Immediately regretted it.

"Oh mon dieu."

Victor glanced up.

"What?"

"These people are exhausting."

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

"Welcome to family law."

The file involved a wealthy married couple fighting over custody rights for a Pomeranian named Princess.

Not a child.

A dog.

I stared at the paperwork in disbelief.

"They're spending thousands arguing over an animal?"

"She's technically marital property."

I looked at him slowly.

"You lawyers are unserious people."

"Divorce brings out the worst in everyone."

"So does hunger. Yet I don't sue people over croissants."

"You might."

"Only if provoked."

Victor's smile widened slightly before the office door suddenly burst open.

"She took my yacht."

A glamorous woman wearing sunglasses larger than my future stormed inside dramatically.

Victor closed his eyes.

Not surprised.

Just tired.

"Good morning to you too, Celeste."

The woman removed her glasses with the grief of a widow in a Victorian opera.

"She took the yacht, Victor."

"Who took the yacht?"

"My wife."

Ah.

One of those days.

Celeste collapsed into the chair beside me before finally noticing me.

Her gaze drifted over my tattoos, braids, rings, and black silk blouse before brightening considerably.

"You're gorgeous."

"I know."

"She's terrifying," Victor added.

Celeste looked delighted.

"I like her already."

Victor pointed a pen at both of us.

"No."

"What?" Celeste asked innocently.

"Whatever alliance just formed between you two ends immediately."

Too late.

I leaned back slightly.

"What happened with the yacht?"

Victor groaned softly.

Celeste turned toward me like I had personally offered salvation.

"She stole it during our separation."

Victor corrected without looking up.

"She relocated jointly owned property during active divorce proceedings."

"You make everything sound ugly."

"You tracked her through three countries."

"She blocked me!"

"You hired multiple investigators."

"She was posting sunsets with another woman!"

Victor rubbed his forehead.

I watched the exchange quietly while sorting folders.

At first glance, the conversation sounded absurd.

Rich people arguing over boats and betrayal.

But underneath it-

Patterns.

Control.
Ownership.
Power.
Humiliation.

People were the same everywhere.

Only the packaging changed.

While Celeste continued ranting dramatically, my eyes drifted toward another folder sitting partially open on Victor's desk.

HAWTHORNE PROPERTY GROUP.

Interesting.

Victor noticed my attention immediately.

Subtle shift.
Tiny tension in his shoulders.

Then smoothly-

He closed the folder.

Not subtle enough.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

"You're distracted," Victor said suddenly.

I looked up calmly.

"No I'm not."

"You alphabetized a divorce file into criminal defense."

I glanced down.

Ah.

Unfortunate.

Celeste leaned toward me conspiratorially.

"You hate paperwork too?"

"I hate most things."

"She'll fit right into London," Celeste declared proudly.

Victor looked exhausted already.

"You are both banned from forming emotional connections."

"Too late," Celeste replied.

"Way too late," I agreed.

Victor looked genuinely offended.

•••••

The courthouse smelled like old paper and disappointment.

Everything was beige.

The walls.
The carpets.
The people.

Even the lighting looked emotionally exhausted.

I walked beside Victor through security while quietly observing everything around me automatically.

Entrances.
Exits.
Cameras.
Security response time.

Habit.

Victor noticed me scanning the room once.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

He said nothing.

Smart man.

Courtroom culture fascinated me.

Not because it impressed me.

Because it reminded me strangely of organized crime.

Same hierarchy.
Same performance.
Same carefully controlled power dynamics.

Only difference?

Better suits.

Celeste sat near the front dabbing fake tears dramatically while her wife whispered aggressively with a woman dressed entirely in sage-green linen.

"That's Sage?" I murmured quietly.

Victor did not look over.

"Yes."

"She looks emotionally manipulative."

"She runs a healing podcast."

"Exactly."

Victor's mouth twitched slightly.

"Please behave today."

"Define behave."

"No threatening opposing counsel."

"I make no promises."

"No intimidation."

"I am naturally intimidating. That feels discriminatory."

Victor sighed heavily.

The hearing began shortly afterward.

For thirty painful minutes, wealthy adults argued over emotional damages, property rights, betrayal, furniture ownership, and eventually-

Princess.

The Pomeranian.

Princess sat inside a designer carrier looking spiritually exhausted.

I related deeply.

Victor, annoyingly competent in court, transformed completely once proceedings began.

Calm voice.
Controlled posture.
Sharp focus.

No chaos.
No sarcasm.
No messy hair energy.

Just precision.

I watched him carefully while pretending not to.

Victor Hart argued like a man who genuinely believed words could protect people.

Ridiculous concept.

Then Sage stood to speak.

"I believe Princess has absorbed relational instability from the marriage dynamic."

My grip tightened around my pen.

Victor noticed instantly.

"Don't," he whispered.

"She is weaponizing therapy language."

"Diamond."

"She sounds like an expensive cult leader."

"Quietly."

I stopped talking.

Barely.

Then suddenly-

Princess escaped.

The tiny white dog burst from her carrier and sprinted across the courtroom barking like a possessed marshmallow.

Chaos erupted instantly.

Celeste screamed.

Her wife stood abruptly.

A clerk tripped over a chair.

Someone dropped paperwork.

Princess launched herself directly toward the judge.

Without thinking, I stood and intercepted the tiny creature mid-air before she could commit judicial assault.

Silence filled the courtroom.

Princess panted happily against my chest before licking my jaw once.

Traitor.

The judge adjusted his glasses slowly.

"Well," he said carefully, "that was unexpectedly athletic."

Victor covered his face with one hand.

Celeste looked near tears.

"She likes you."

"I doubt that."

Princess licked me again.

The courtroom stared.

I looked down at the ridiculous dog in my arms.

"...I hate London."

Victor stood quickly.

"If it pleases the court, my associate will return Princess."

Associate?

Interesting promotion.

I handed the dog back to Celeste before returning calmly beside Victor.

"You handled that surprisingly well," he murmured quietly.

"I like dogs."

"You threatened a locksmith with a crowbar three days ago."

"Dogs are easier."

Victor looked like he wanted to laugh again.

Unfortunately for him, his phone vibrated at that exact moment.

Everything about him changed instantly.

Tiny shift.

But noticeable.

He looked down at the screen.

Expression hardened.

Interesting.

Again.

He declined the call immediately.

"Problem?" I asked casually.

"No."

Lie.

Victor slipped the phone away too quickly.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

•••••

By the time we returned to Shoreditch, rain had begun falling steadily across the city.

Neon signs reflected across wet pavement while music drifted from bars and cafés glowing warmly beneath the grey evening.

London looked beautiful in bad weather.

Honest somehow.

Victor walked beside me unusually quiet.

His phone buzzed again.

This time I caught the name before he silenced it.

Unknown Number.

Repeatedly.

His jaw tightened slightly.

Debt?

Threats?

Hawthorne?

I filed the information away carefully.

The investigation came first.

Always.

No matter how warm the Barn felt lately.

No matter how easy Victor was becoming to exist beside.

No matter how dangerous that softness felt.

The moment we reached the pub, noise spilled through the entrance immediately.

Archie was singing terribly again.

Donna screamed laughing from somewhere near the bar.

Amy rolled her eyes while cleaning glasses aggressively.

Ordinary life.

Victor opened the door before pausing slightly beside me.

"You alright?"

I glanced toward the warm lights inside.

Then toward the dark London street behind us.

Two worlds.

Neither fully mine.

"Fine," I answered automatically.

Victor studied me quietly for a second too long.

"You always say that when you're not."

"And you ask too many questions."

"Occupational hazard."

He smiled faintly.

Tired this time.

Real.

Then he disappeared inside the warmth of the Barn while I remained outside another moment beneath the rain.

Thinking about:
- Hawthorne
- Jean-Claude
- André's files
- Victor's hidden stress
- and the serpent symbol still burned into my memory.

London was beginning to feel smaller.

And that usually meant danger was getting closer.