MY EX HUSBAND’S REGRET

The lawyer

Monday morning arrived with sharp cold that reminded you winter was coming whether you were ready for it or not. I was already up at six, dressed by seven, sitting at my small desk with a cup of coffee, with my laptop opened, searching for divorce lawyers in Manhattan. The kind that were good but not so expensive that I’d burn through the last of my savings before the case even started.

It was harder than I expected. Every website looked the same with professional headshots and promises of aggressive representation and confidential consultations. Words designed to make desperate people feel like they were in capable hands.

I didn’t feel capable of anything right now. But I was trying.

I narrowed it down to three names. All women, which felt important for reasons I couldn’t fully articulate. All with strong reviews and reasonable consultation fees. I sent emails to all three before leaving for work, explaining my situation briefly and asking for the earliest available appointment.

The subway was packed with Monday morning energy, everyone looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. I stood holding the overhead rail, swaying with the motion of the train, thinking about Ethan’s email, the coldness of it, and how efficiently he was dismantling everything we’d built together.

*The house is mine. The joint accounts are mine.*

Was that true? Could he just claim everything? We both contributed to that house. I paid half the mortgage for five years, decorated the rooms, and even planted the garden in the backyard that he couldn’t keep alive to save his life. I’ve contributed so much to those joint accounts every single month.

But I didn’t know enough about divorce law to know what I was entitled to. That’s what the lawyer was for.

I got to the office at eight forty-five and threw myself into work immediately, grateful for the distraction. Sarah had left a stack of new projects on my desk over the weekend, three campaigns that needed initial concepts by end of week. It was a lot, but I welcomed it. More work meant less time to sit in my own head.

By ten o’clock I had two responses from lawyers. By eleven I had a confirmed consultation for Wednesday afternoon with a woman named Diana Reeves whose reviews described her as ruthless in the best possible way.

Good. I needed ruthless.

I was deep in a campaign brief when my phone buzzed with an internal message from Adrian’s assistant.

ANNE: *Mr. Rhode would like to know if you’re free for lunch today. Informal. Cafeteria is fine if you prefer.*

I stared at the message. The cafeteria. Not a fancy restaurant, not his private office. Just lunch in the building cafeteria like two normal people.

Something about that felt more intimate than Elara had.

ME: *Cafeteria works. Twelve thirty?*

ANNE: *Perfect. He’ll meet you there.*

Melissa appeared at my cubicle entrance at twelve fifteen, coffee in hand like always. “Lunch?”

“I actually have plans today. Rain check?”

She glanced at her coffee, then back at me with a small knowing smile. “Sure. Rain check.”

I hoped she didn’t know. Hoped it wasn’t already obvious.

Adrian was already at a table when I got to the cafeteria, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, looking considerably less intimidating than he did in full CEO mode. He had two plates of food waiting.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he said as I sat down. “So I got both options.”

I looked at the plates. A grain bowl with roasted vegetables and a club sandwich with fries.

“Sandwich,” I said, pulling it toward me. “Always the sandwich.”

“Good choice.” He pulled the grain bowl toward himself. “How’s the week starting?”

“Busy. Sarah gave me three new campaigns.”

“She likes you. She told me Friday you were the strongest hire she’d made in two years.”

“You talked to Sarah about me?”

“She volunteers information. I just listen.”

I picked up half my sandwich. “You shouldn’t ask your employees about me.”

“I didn’t ask. She told me.” He looked completely unrepentant. “There’s a difference.”

“Barely.”

He smiled and we ate in comfortable silence for a moment, the cafeteria humming around us with lunchtime noise.

“How was your weekend?” he asked.

I thought about the text from the unknown number. About Marcus and his notebook full of questions. Ethan’s cold email and the lawyer I’d booked for Wednesday.

“Complicated,” I said honestly. “But productive.” I added.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I know. I appreciate that.” I set my sandwich down. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why me? Genuinely. You could have anyone. You’re rich, you’re attractive, you run a company. Women in this building alone would fall over themselves for your attention.” I gestured vaguely at the cafeteria around us. “So why are you spending your lunch hour eating cafeteria food with someone who’s clearly carrying a truckload of baggage?”

He was quiet for a moment, considering the question seriously instead of deflecting with charm.

“Because you’re real,” he said finally. “Most people I meet are performing. They’re either impressed by the money or intimidated by it. They say what they think I want to hear or they work so hard at seeming unbothered that they become boring.” He looked at me steadily. “You told me our night together was a mistake. That you didn’t want me calling you to my office. You pushed back on everything.”

“That’s not exactly flattering.” I said.

“It’s the most flattering thing anyone’s done in years.” He picked up his fork. “You treat me like a person, not a balance sheet. That’s rarer than you’d think.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just picked up my sandwich again and chewed, trying not to think about how much I liked sitting here with him.

“I’m going through a divorce,” I said suddenly.

He nodded slowly. “I figured.”

“It’s messy. And there are things about it, things that happened, that I’m not ready to explain yet. But I want you to know that going in. That I’m in the middle of something complicated and I don’t know how long it’ll take to get out the other side.”

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Should it?”

“Most people would run.”

“I’m not most people.” He said it simply, without arrogance. Just as a statement of fact.

We finished lunch without any more heavy conversation, slipping back into the easy rhythm we’d found at Elara. He told me about a disastrous board meeting from that morning that had him wanting to throw his laptop through the window. I told him about a client from my old job who used to send seventeen emails before nine AM every single day without exception.

When we stood to leave he touched the small of my back briefly, the lightest possible contact as he guided me around a chair, and I felt it everywhere.