Chapter 3
Richard's hands were shaking.
Mike put his phone away, locking eyes with him.
"Dad, Monica's been working on this case for two months already," Mike said.
He zipped up his backpack and stood up.
"She said she'll call you tomorrow morning to go over everything in detail. But tonight, you should sleep in the study."
Mike finished talking, then walked over and bent down beside me.
He scooped Lily up, holding her close with one arm, and gently pulled me along with his other hand.
"Mom, go wash your face. The soup's cold now; I'll warm it up for you," he said.
He led Lily and me toward the kitchen, without so much as a glance at Richard as we passed by.
Behind us, I heard the couch springs creak.
That was the sound of a grown man slumping back, totally defeated.
That night, Richard never made it to the study.
He spent the whole night sitting on the couch in the living room.
I knew, because I barely slept either.
Lily was curled up next to me, breathing evenly, sometimes kicking her leg in her sleep. Mike was in the next room, and around two in the morning, I heard the sound of pages turning. Exams were done, so what was he still up reading?
It wasn't until later that I realized he was poring over a printout of the family law guide.
For three months, he wasn't fighting this battle with just his bare hands. He made a folder, split it into six subfolders, labeled them: Recordings, Screenshots, Finances, Legal Stuff, Properties, Timeline.
He was only fifteen years old.
When I was fifteen, I was fangirling, reading web novels, and sneaking notes to my girlfriends.
But my son, at fifteen, was cramming chemistry equations and collecting proof of his dad's cheating.
Around four in the morning, I heard some movement in the living room.
Richard was on the phone, his voice low. But in the quiet of the night, even through the door, I could catch bits and pieces.
He said, "James, come by tomorrow. Yeah, about the divorce. No, no, she's not the one who wants it. I do, but it's complicated. We'll talk when you get here."
I knew James. He was Richard's college buddy, now a lawyer at a small law firm. He wasn't some big-shot attorney, but he was a real smooth talker. He'd helped Richard handle a few minor company disputes before.
He was calling in backup.
I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Oddly enough, I didn't shed tears like I used to.
That overwhelming ache peaked around two or three in the morning, then started to fade. But what was left behind wasn't sand; it was rocks.
Hard, jagged rocks, painful to the touch, digging into me with every thought.
That was anger.
When morning came, I got up and made breakfast.
Not out of habit, but because my kids needed to eat.
Eggs, milk, sandwiches. Lily's juice needed half a cup of warm water, and Michael's milk had to be sugar-free.
Richard didn't know any of this. He didn't even know Lily wouldn't eat cilantro.
He wanted the kids to be his?
What a joke.
Richard sat slumped at the dining table, eyes bloodshot, scruffy with stubble, yesterday's shirt rumpled and wrinkled.
He watched as I set down breakfast, hesitating for a moment before speaking. "Claire, we need to talk."
"If you want to talk, wait until your lawyer gets here," I said.
I didn't even realize my voice could be so calm.
Richard shot me a look, like he wanted to say something but couldn't. In the end, he ducked his head, took a sip of his milk, and set the glass back down, silent.
At ten in the morning, the doorbell rang.
James showed up.
He was in his early forties, dressed in a polo shirt and casual pants, carrying a bag of fruit, looking more like he was just dropping by for a friendly visit than coming over for business.
"Claire, long time no see," James said with a grin. "Richard filled me in. You know, every family's got its own mess. Let's sit down and hash things out—"
"Hi, Mr. King," Michael said.
Michael walked out of his room.
Michael had thrown on a fresh white T-shirt and was carrying that brown envelope in his hand.
James glanced at him, still smiling. "Mike, you've grown up so much! You finished your big exams, right? How'd you do?"
"It went okay," Michael said. "Since you're a lawyer, Mr. King, I'll get straight to the point."
He opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of documents, all neatly sorted and held together with binder clips.
He slid the first group over to James.
"These are screenshots of my dad's messages with the other woman—128 pages, covering everything from last September up to this month. You'll find flirty chats, plans for trips, and discussions about money," Michael said.
James's smile slipped a little.
He slid the second group over.
Michael said, "These are the printed transcripts of the audio recordings—seven clips in total, forty-seven minutes long. The third and fifth clips contain explicit discussions about moving in together and intentions regarding property arrangements.
The original audio files are backed up in the cloud and have been notarized and archived by Monica Shaw from Integrity Law Group."
James's hand froze mid-air, the glass hovering there.
Michael pushed the third stack of documents toward James. "Here are the bank transfer records, twenty-three in all.
"Over the past eleven months, my dad's ICBC account sent multiple payments to Jessica Lane's account, totaling 230,000 dollars.
"Of that, 150,000 dollars was used as the down payment for an apartment at Eastview Residence in the east district, and the rest went toward everyday spending."
He paused for a moment. "The photocopy of the purchase contract is in the fourth group.
"The deed is in Jessica Lane's name, but every dollar used to pay for it came straight from my parents' joint assets."
James set his glass down.
He glanced at Richard, then at the stack of documents, and his face turned serious.
He picked up the first set of documents and flipped through a few pages.
He started flipping faster and faster, then stopped and took a deep breath.
"Rich," James turned to Richard, his voice dropping several notches. "Is this for real?"
Richard stayed silent, his hands clenched tightly together, the veins on the back standing out as he fought to keep his emotions in check.
James set the documents down, stood up, and led Richard to the balcony.
The sliding door to the balcony wasn't fully closed, so I overheard snippets of their conversation.
"Dude, are you nuts? This evidence is so solid, it's textbook-level. Your lawyer's Monica Shaw? Monica from Integrity Law Group? I've seen her in court, man."
"Honestly, Rich, if you try to fight this, you're gonna lose—like, a 90% chance. Right now, your best move is to sit down and work out a deal."
Richard's voice dropped even lower, his words mumbled and indistinct, like he was trying to explain himself.
James cut him off. "Listen to me, Rich. Stop being stubborn. The more you fight this, the more you're gonna lose."
They came back in from the balcony.
James's face had shifted into full lawyer mode—no more smiles, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes were sharp and scrutinizing.
But that scrutiny wasn't aimed at me or Michael.
It was all for Richard.
"Claire," James said, looking at me, "when's Monica available? I'd like to get a sense of what you want from all this first."
Before I could answer, Michael's phone rang.
He checked the caller ID, picked up, and hit speaker.
"Mike, it's Monica," Monica said.
Her voice was sharp and quick, each word hitting with perfect timing, like she was keeping a steady beat.
Monica said, "I finished looking over the extra stuff you sent. The apartment can be taken back, no problem. The transfers are covered by Article 47, so you can definitely go for a bigger share.
"Also, there's a big withdrawal from your dad's payroll account that matches the business trip you mentioned. I've already marked it.
Monica paused. "Alright, tomorrow at two, I'll come to your place, and we'll talk face-to-face. If their lawyer wants to join, that's cool."
"Got it, Monica," Michael said.
The air in the living room was so heavy, it felt like you could cut it with a knife.
James looked at Richard, his gaze unreadable.
Richard stared at the floor, jaw clenched so tight the vein at his temple was visibly throbbing.
I looked at the man sitting across from me, the one I'd shared sixteen years of my life with, and realized I couldn't even remember what he said when he asked me to marry him.
I just remember saying, "I do."
How ridiculous.
I set my cup down and looked at him.
"Richard," I said.
He looked up.
"If you want to fight this, I'll see it through to the end," I said.
My voice was steadier than I expected.
Like the rocks revealed after the midnight tide recedes.
Hard and unyielding, not afraid of the waves anymore.