Left daughter home alone.
Frequent parties.
Alcohol.
Married him for his money.
I press my lips together, a slow, unimpressed pout forming.
Oh no. Tragic. A cautionary tale. Man marries a woman exclusively for her looks and money becomes the only stable thing in the relationship. Someone alert the police. I snort. Idiot.
I can practically see him. Older now, probably broader, still carrying himself like the world is his personal locker room. The kind of man who thinks consequences are more of a suggestion. I glance back at the file, this time forcing myself to read like a professional and not a deeply petty former band kid.
The case is… thin. Messy even.
A lot of accusations, not a lot of proof. And as much as I’d love to assume everything connected to Koltun Kirillov is automatically terrible, something about this really does feel off. A mother leaving her child alone that often? It’s not impossible but it’s suspicious in a way that doesn’t quite line up.
I grab my phone and look his ex-wife up.
I find her instantly, of course, like my Instagram algorithm itself is excited about the drama.
And wow.
Her entire feed looks like a masterclass in “rich and vaguely unattainable.” White, skintight dresses. Legs posed at anglesthat defy both gravity and common sense. Heels so high I get secondhand ankle pain just looking at them. Long blonde hair, perfectly arranged. And the lips—pursed into a glossy, hyper-edited pout that’s been smoothed, blurred, and filtered into oblivion.
Luxury socialite, her bio says.
I huff.
Of course, this is your type, Koltun.
Or at least, exactly the type I would expect from someone who used to think shoving people into lockers counted as a personality trait. I don’t see any pictures with her daughter anywhere, although it’s a good sign if they don’t market their kids all over Instagram or elsewhere but at first glance, it looks more like a party profile.
Champagne here. Yacht there.
But honestly, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Without clear evidence, the father won’t get custody, especially not if the mother is at home, and he’s constantly traveling because of all these stupid away games. I don’t know anything about hockey, but pro players are always busy. As we all know, after the game is before the game. So why should he be given full custody if he can’t look after his daughter? She can. At least on paper, and that’s what matters to the judge. We need proof and we don’t have any.
So, all in all, that sounds like too much stress.
Whether he’s still a jerk or not—and let’s be honest, odds are strongly in favor—this case doesn’t exactly scream easy win. If anything, it looks like a slow, uphill battle with too many loose ends and not enough proof.
And the worst part?
I’d have to deal with him.
Regularly.
Face-to-face.
Yeah. No, thank you.
I’m not signing up to fight a losing case and tolerate this asshole. Some things are simply not worth the emotional collateral.
I smile contentedly as I close the file and press the speed dial button to call my assistant. Maybe this is something like karma. Lethimlive a miserable life now. Not my fault. I’m not his helper in times of need. He should have thought twice back then about who he bumped into in the hallway or laughed at because she wasn’t wearing the coolest clothes. Or had the prettiest face. The sexiest body. The richest family.
Not my business.
“How can I help you, Miss Davis?” asks my loyal assistant John, with his oversized horn-rimmed glasses that are always sliding down his long nose. He looks a bit like a lanky Clark Kent to me.
