“I didn’t plan to shut him down at all,” I say, shaking my head at the memory. “Honestly, after the singing telegram incident at his office and two weeks of my ignoring every single attempt to contact me, I thought he’d have the sense to leave me alone. I only went to the gala because I’d made a commitment to the committee months ago. I’m done with Preston, but I’m not going to let the charities suffer because of it.”
“The singing telegram was inspired, by the way,” Patricia says with genuine approval.
“I can’t take credit for that. That was all Nico.” A smile tugs at my lips. “Apparently, there’s a company that specializes in divorce celebrations. She said she went with the ‘modest package’ — just three performers, glitter poppers, and a balloon bouquet. There was a deluxe option with a mariachi band, but she thought that might be overkill.”
“A balloon bouquet?” Patricia asks, clearly intrigued.
“Three giant ‘It’s a Girl!’ balloons.” I can’t help but grin. “Pink and white.”
Patricia’s laugh is sharp and delighted. “The image of Preston Darlington standing there with pregnancy announcement balloons while someone sings about his affairs… That’s better than any legal brief I could write.”
“Nico said he tried to play it off as my ‘eccentric sense of humor.’ Apparently, he spent the whole day doing damage control, telling people it was a prank.” I shake my head. “I thought he’d got the message. I was done. Completely done. I ignored the flowers he sent the next day. I ignored the dinner invitation and the dress he had sent for me to wear. I ignored the emails sent by his assistant - Nico, ha! - about a spontaneous weekend in Paris. I didn’t respond to a single voicemail. Not one.”
“And yet he still thought he could win you back at the gala?” Patricia looks genuinely fascinated by Preston’s delusion.
“That’s what shocked me. I walked in thinking he’d avoid me, maybe glare from across the room at most. Instead, he approached me like we were a happily married couple having a minor spat. He acted like nothing had happened in front of other people, and then asked me to dance.” I pause, remembering the surreal moment. “And like an idiot, I said yes. I think I was so surprised by his audacity that I just… complied out of pure shock.”
“What did he say during the dance?”
“The usual Preston performance. ‘I love you, I’ve been an idiot, everyone’s watching us, we’re so perfect together.’ All delivered at a volume calculated for the couples around us to hear. He was putting on a show, trying to control the narrative. Make everyone think we were working through things, that he was the devoted husband fighting for his marriage.”
Patricia’s expression darkens. “Classic manipulation.”
“I went to the powder room to escape, and that’s when I overheard two women.” I feel the anger rise again, sharp and clean. “Two of his mistresses, comparing notes about their recent encounters with him. Very detailed notes.”
“Jesus Christ,” Patricia mutters.
“I walked out, told him I knew, told him his performance was wasted effort, and left. His face…” I smile at the memory. “For the first time since this whole thing started, I think Preston realized I actually meant it. That I’m not coming back.”
Patricia nods slowly, that predatory gleam returning to her eyes. “Good. Because after you hear his legal response, you’re going to be even more resolved.”
She doesn’t waste time on further pleasantries. “Preston’s lawyers sent this over this morning,” she says, tapping a key on her laptop. A document appears on the large screen mounted on the wall. “Their response.” She leans back in her chair, a satisfied gleam in her eyes. “It’s even better than I hoped.”
I read the legal jargon, my heart sinking with each word. “He’s claiming constructive abandonment,” I whisper. “He’s saying I left him without cause.” I look up at Patricia, genuinely confused. “But we filed all the evidence. The texts, the photos, the hotel receipts. How can he just… ignore that? Pretend it doesn’t exist?”
Patricia lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Because he’s a narcissist engaging in textbook gaslighting. He either didn’t read the evidence we submitted or he read it and instructed his lawyers to proceed as if we have nothing. It’s a standard opening move for someone like him. He’s trying to paint you as unstable, emotional, the one who walked away from a perfect marriage. It’s designed to put you on the defensive, make you doubt your own reality.” She leans forward, her expression turning predatory. “But it’s a strategy that only works if your opponent doesn’t have a handful of aces, which we do.”
She clicks on another document. The adultery evidence we filed with the initial petition fills the screen — texts, photos, hotel receipts, all timestamped and documented. “His claim of abandonment would be laughable in any courtroom. A judge would look at this evidence and rule in your favor in minutes. We have him on infidelity, which voids that precious prenup clause he was counting on. And that post-nup he tried to draft? The one that would have stripped you of all protections? Never signed, never executed, completely irrelevant.” She waves her hand dismissively at Preston’s response, still displayed on part of the screen. “This — all of this posturing and gaslighting — is designed to make you think we need to avoid court and settle. To scare you into taking less than you deserve. He can gaslight all he wants on paper, but facts don’t lie.”
For the next hour, she walks me through our counter-strategy. The next steps in the legal process, the timeline for discovery, and the depositions we’ll schedule. When she gets tothe complex web of shell corporations Preston has used to hide his money, she pulls up new documents. “His lawyers submitted these in their response — additional financial disclosures. Required by law, but I’m sure they hoped we won’t look too closely.”
She leans back in her chair, her expression turning serious. “I need to prepare you for what’s coming next. Preston’s response shows he’s going to fight dirty. He’ll try to drag this out, exhaust you financially and emotionally. His family has resources.”
“So do I,” I say. Not money — I’ll never have Darlington money. But I have Nico, still working in Preston’s office, still feeding me intelligence about his next moves. I have Patricia, the dragon herself. I have my own sharp mind, finally awake after six years of enforced sleep. “And I have the truth.”
I leave the office feeling energized, powerful. The city air feels charged with possibility. I’m halfway to my car when my phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a name that once would have made my heart leap with joy when he called to say he loved me, missed me, couldn’t wait to get home:Preston.
My heart gives a small, reflexive lurch, but it’s muted now. Distant. The old Snow would have answered on the first ring, eager and hopeful, ready to do whatever he asked, to be whatever he needed. My thumb hovers over the green button, but not from hope or compulsion. From curiosity.
But then I see my reflection in the dark glass of a skyscraper. I see the woman holding her head high. I remember his response brief, his desperate claim of abandonment, his lawyers scrambling to defend the indefensible.
He doesn’t have power over me anymore.
I take a deep breath and press the button.
“Snow,” he says, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. Very different from the smooth charm he used to wield. “Weneed to talk. This rubbish from your lawyer is absurd. You left me, Snow. You walked out.”
“I did,” I say, my own voice so calm it surprises me.
