SHE WAS NEVER HIS MISTRESS

CHAPTER 7: The Divorce Papers

ARIA'S POV

Sarah Mendoza's office smelled like coffee and lavender. The kind of scent meant to calm people down before their lives got torn apart on paper.

I sat in the chair across from her desk and tried not to pick at my cuticles but I failed.

"Thanks for seeing me so quickly," I said.

Sarah smiled. She was maybe forty, with dark hair pulled back and glasses that made her look both kind and sharp. Photos of two kids lined her desk. A pride flag pin sat on her blazer lapel.

"Of course." She opened a folder. "So. Aria Sinclair. Married three years to Flynn Thornfield. No children. Joint ownership of a home in Pearl District. I pulled the property records. It's worth about eight hundred thousand."

My stomach twisted. That house. Our house. Past tense now.

"Oregon is an equitable distribution state," Sarah continued. "That means fair division, not necessarily equal. But typically, a three-year marriage with joint assets splits fifty-fifty. You're entitled to half the home value, half of any retirement accounts, and half the appreciation of his business during the marriage."

"I don't want any of that."

Sarah looked up. "Excuse me?"

"I don't want his money. I just want out."

"Aria." She set down her pen. "I understand you're angry. But divorce isn't about punishment. It's about protection. You need to protect yourself."

"I'm protecting myself by getting away from him."

"With what? You work part-time at a gallery. He runs a multi-million dollar investment firm. The power imbalance is significant."

I looked at the photos on her desk. Two kids, maybe eight and ten, grinning at the camera. "Are you divorced?"

"Seven years now."

"Did you take his money?"

"Every penny I was entitled to." She leaned forward. "And I used it to build a life where I didn't need him for anything. That's not revenge. That's strategy."

The word made me flinch. Strategy. Planning. All the things Flynn had done behind my back while I floated through our marriage believing in honesty.

"I have some savings," I said. "I'll be fine."

"Savings run out. Job markets shift. You're twenty-eight. You have a whole life ahead of you. Don't make decisions out of pride that you'll regret at thirty-five."

But it wasn't pride. It was something else. Something about not wanting anything from him to touch me. Not his money. Not his guilt payments. Not his attempts to fix what he broke by throwing cash at it.

"Just draw up the papers," I said. "I'll take my personal belongings and my car. He can have everything else."

Sarah studied me for a long moment. Then she sighed and pulled out a fresh form. "All right. But I'm putting it on record that I advised against this."

"Noted."

We spent the next hour going through details. Timeline: ninety days minimum in Oregon from filing to finalization. On the grounds of irreconcilable differences. For the Division of assets, I initial next to every line that gives him everything.

Sarah explained that Flynn would be served at his office. A process server would hand him the papers in front of whoever happened to be there. Public. Humiliating.

I didn't plan it that way. But I didn't stop it either.

"Last thing," Sarah said. She slid a document across the desk. "Petition for dissolution of marriage. Once you sign this, there's a mandatory waiting period, but the clock starts. You sure?"

I picked up the pen. Black ink. My name at the bottom. Aria Sinclair. Not Aria Thornfield. I'd never changed my name. Flynn said it didn't matter. Turned out he was right.

I signed.

The pen scratched against paper. Such a small sound for such a massive thing.

"Done," Sarah said softly. "I'll file this today. Flynn will be served within forty-eight hours."

I stood. My legs felt weird. Too light. Like I might float away.

"Thank you."

"Call me if you need anything. Or if you change your mind about the assets."

I wouldn't. But I nodded anyway.

Outside, downtown Portland was gray and drizzling. Typical march weather. The kind that couldn't decide between winter and spring so it just stayed miserable. I started walking without direction. Past office buildings and food carts and people in raincoats hurrying to wherever they needed to be.

My phone buzzed. Jordan asking how it went. I texted back: Done. She sent back three heart emojis and a proud of you message.

I kept walking. My feet took me toward the river, then veered left. Before I realized where I was going, I was standing in front of the Portland Art Museum.

I hadn't been here since before the wedding. Flynn said he'd take me. We'd get a membership. Make it a regular thing. We never did.

I paid the admission and went inside. The building was quiet on a Monday afternoon. A few tourists. Some students sketching. I wandered without purpose until I found myself in the modern art wing.

The Rothko room.

Three massive canvases. Blocks of color bleeding into each other. Orange and red. Purple and black. Yellow and gray. His work wasn't about objects. It was about feeling. Pure emotion painted onto canvas.

I stood in front of the orange and red one. Stared at it until the colors started to blur.

This was what loss looked like. Not sharp. Not clean. Just bleeding. One thing mixing into another until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

My throat went tight. My eyes burned.

I was in public. Museum lighting. Security cameras. Other people in the room.

I cried anyway.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just tears running down my face while I stood there looking at rectangles of color. An old woman glanced at me, then looked away politely. A guard pretended not to notice.

I don't know how long I stood there. Long enough for my face to get puffy and my nose to run. I really didn't care that strangers could see me falling apart.

When I finally left, the rain had stopped. The sky was still gray but lighter. I walked back to my apartment, climbed the four flights, and sat on my air mattress.

My phone rang. Unknown number. I let it go to voicemail.

Two minutes later, a text from Jordan: Flynn's office just called the gallery looking for you. Vincent told them you don't work Mondays. What's going on?

I texted back: He got served.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Jordan: Good.

I set my phone down and lay back on the air mattress. It squeaked under my weight. The ceiling had a water stain in the corner shaped like a cloud. Our old bedroom ceiling was perfect. Smooth white paint. Track lighting. Everything exactly as it should be.

This ceiling however… But I liked this one better.

My phone buzzed again. This time a call from Sarah.

"The papers were delivered," she said. "Just got confirmation. He's been served."

"Okay."

"There's something else. He tried to contact the process server. Asked when you filed. Asked if there was any way to delay it."

"Can he?"

"No. It's done. I just thought you should know he's trying."

"Thanks for letting me know."

I hung up and checked the calendar on my phone. March fourteenth. Our fourth anniversary was April second. Exactly ninety days from today.

The divorce papers arrived at his office on what would have been our fourth anniversary. I didn't plan it that way.

Apparently, the universe has a sense of irony.