"Sarah..." Harrison whispered. She hadn't just called a lawyer. She had sent a process server to his place of business in the middle of the workday. This wasn't just legal action; it was a tactical nuclear strike.
"Mr. Miller," the man prompted, tapping the clipboard. "I don't have all day."
Harrison took the pen. His hand was shaking so violently he could barely form the ‘H’. He scrawled something resembling a signature.
"You've been served," the man said. He dropped the heavy envelope onto Harrison’s desk. It landed with a thud that sounded like a coffin lid closing.
The man turned and walked out.
Harrison stood alone in the glass box. He couldn't look up. He knew everyone was staring.
Slowly, as if moving underwater, he reached for the envelope. He tore the top open.
He pulled out the petition.
IN THE CIRCUIT COURT OF COOK COUNTY
PETITIONER: SARAH BENNETT (f/k/a MILLER)
RESPONDENT: HARRISON MILLER
Bennett. She had already used her maiden name on the filing.
He scanned the document, his eyes burning.
COUNT I: DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
Grounds: Adultery.
COUNT II: ASSET DIVISION
Harrison dropped into his chair, the papers crinkling in his grip.
It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a negotiation. It was a demolition order.
"It meant nothing," he whispered to the empty room, the mantra he had used to soothe himself for forty-eight hours.
He looked at the bold black letters: IRRETRIEVABLE BREAKDOWN.
The law didn't care that it meant nothing to him. To the law, and to Sarah, it meant everything.
His phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Emily.
Emily: Did you get paid today? We need to pay for another night at the motel. Also, I’m hungry.
Harrison looked at the text. Then he looked at the divorce papers.
A laugh bubbled up in his throat—a dry, hysterical sound. He had traded a woman who was filing pristine legal briefsto protect her dignity for a woman who was asking him for motel money via text message.
He put his head on the desk, covering his face with his hands, and for the first time since the lights came on in the living room, Harrison Miller stopped lying to himself.
He wasn't in the doghouse. He was in hell. And he had built it brick by brick.
Chapter Nine
Harrison
Harrison parked his rental car in front of the generic brick apartment complex on the south side of town. It was a sublet Emily had found three days ago—a "temporary solution" she had called it, demanding he transfer the deposit money because her accounts were frozen.
