Chapter 3

The rain had finally stopped when I pushed open the door to Westlake Bistro, scanning the lunch crowd for Jessica Riley. I spotted her in a corner booth, her sleek bob and confident posture unmistakable even from across the room. She stood as I approached, extending her hand with a warm smile that didn't quite mask the professional assessment in her eyes.

"Dr. Hayes," she said, her grip firm. "Thank you for being punctual."

"Victoria, please," I replied, sliding into the booth across from her.

She nodded, immediately opening a leather portfolio. "I've reviewed your situation. Seven years of marriage, joint property acquisition, both medical professionals at the same institution." She looked up. "No children?"

"No," I answered, the single syllable carrying more weight than I intended.

Jessica's expression softened momentarily. "That simplifies things, at least legally."

The waiter appeared, and I ordered a salad I knew I wouldn't eat. Jessica requested sparkling water, then turned back to me with laser focus.

"Washington is a no-fault state, which works in your favor," she explained, sliding several documents across the table. "You don't need to prove his affair, though the evidence you've gathered will help with negotiating terms."

I traced my finger along the rim of my water glass. "He'll fight it."

"Most do," Jessica replied matter-of-factly. "Especially men like your husband—successful, controlling, accustomed to getting their way." She leaned forward. "But here's what you need to understand, Victoria. This isn't a surgery where you need his cooperation. This is you excising something toxic from your life."

Her words struck home with surgical precision. I'd spent years trying to save a patient who didn't want to be saved—my marriage.

"What do I need to do?" I asked, my voice steadier than I expected.

Jessica smiled—a genuine smile this time. "Sign the retainer agreement. Then we file the petition and serve him." She slid another document forward. "This is the divorce petition. Read it carefully."

I scanned the legal language, my medical training making quick work of the dense text. The clinical description of our failed marriage felt both devastating and liberating. Seven years reduced to paragraphs of legal terminology.

"And this," Jessica continued, "is your statement of assets. You'll need to be thorough."

By the time our food arrived, I had signed the retainer agreement, my signature a declaration of independence. Jessica tucked the document into her portfolio with a nod of approval.

"We'll file this afternoon," she said. "The petition will be ready for you to deliver personally, if that's what you want."

"It is," I replied, surprising myself with my certainty.

Three hours later, I stood outside Marcus's office at Seattle General, divorce papers clutched in my hand. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my surgeon's hands remained steady. I knocked once and entered without waiting for a response.

Marcus looked up from his computer, annoyance flashing across his face before settling into his usual mask of professional detachment.

"I'm in the middle of something, Victoria," he said, his attention already returning to his screen.

"This will only take a minute," I replied, approaching his immaculate mahogany desk. I placed the envelope squarely in front of him. "I'm filing for divorce."

For a moment, genuine surprise registered on his face. Then, slowly, a smirk spread across his lips. He picked up the envelope, opened it, and scanned the contents.

"Is this about London?" he asked, his tone almost bored. "You're overreacting, as usual."

"This is about seven years of neglect," I said quietly. "Seven years of being invisible in my own marriage."

Marcus sighed dramatically, as if dealing with a difficult patient. Then, with deliberate slowness, he began tearing the papers—first in half, then quarters, then into confetti that scattered across his desk.

"We're not getting divorced," he stated, his voice calm but final. "You're upset. You're emotional. This will pass."

"I've retained an attorney," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "These are copies. The originals have been filed."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "Do you really want to do this, Victoria? Think about what you're risking—your position here, your reputation."

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his expression changed instantly. Concern replaced irritation as he read the message.

"I need to go," he said, standing abruptly. "Amanda's in the ER. Severe migraines. We'll discuss this... situation... later."

He swept past me without another glance, leaving me alone with the shredded remains of my divorce petition scattered like surgical waste across his pristine desk.

My phone pinged with a notification. A text from the head nurse in Neurology: "Dr. Hayes, patient Amanda Rodriguez requesting consult. Claims you're refusing treatment due to personal conflict. Dr. Miller asking for explanation."

I stared at the message, ice forming in my veins as I realized this was no coincidence. The game had changed, and Amanda had just made her next move.