Chapter 3 Breaking Point
Alex Blackwood's POV:
Knowing about today's court session and that things were certainly over. A few friends, led by Leo Parker, organized a gathering to help lift my spirits. The Metropolitan Club's private dining room felt suffocating despite its high ceilings. I stared at my untouched whiskey, trying to ignore the conversation around me.
"Come on, Alex," Simon Hayes grinned over his martini. "No need to be so gloomy. You still have Emma by your side. Keeping your desk warm, maybe?"
Leo chuckled. "Those late-night strategy sessions must be... productive."
My grip tightened on the crystal tumbler. Only Andrew remained silent, studying his drink with unusual intensity.
"I bet she's wondering where you are right now," Simon continued with a knowing smirk. "Such a dedicated assistant, always so eager to help—"
The crystal glass shattered against the wall. "Enough! Don't say her name again!"
My hand was bleeding, but I barely noticed. The rage that had been simmering all evening finally boiled over. The pain felt distant compared to the rage burning in my chest. Seven years of being together and four years of marriage, and Serena thought she could just walk away?
"Alex—" Andrew Wilson started to rise.
"Save it." I threw my napkin on the table. "I don't need your jokes or your commentary."
I stormed out, leaving their confused calls behind. The cold air hit my face as I stepped onto the street, but it did nothing to cool my temper.
The penthouse felt wrong the moment I stepped inside. The lights were off, but that wasn't it. Something else was missing - the warmth, the life, the small touches that made it home.
Usually, after a difficult case, I'd come home to find Serena in the kitchen. She'd be stress-baking, flour on her cheeks, coffee brewing for both of us. She'd listen as I walked her through my arguments, helping me prepare for the next day.
Every time I came home, she would immediately run out to greet me with a warm smile on her face, making me feel incredibly cozy and happy. She was always so considerate, paying attention to every detail of my life. When I was utterly exhausted, she would gently massage me, softly kneading my shoulders and back to help me relieve the day's fatigue. Her technique was skillful, and every touch brought me relaxation and comfort. She took care of me in every possible way, letting me feel her endless care and love.
But tonight, the kitchen was dark and cold. No coffee aroma, no mixing bowls in the sink, no freshly baked cookies cooling on the counter.
"Serena?" My voice echoed through empty rooms.
The living room looked untouched. The throw blanket she always wrapped around herself while reading case files lay perfectly folded on the sofa. Her reading glasses still sat on the side table, waiting.
My phone buzzed. A credit card alert.
Multiple charges from luxury stores downtown scrolled across my screen. Each total more outrageous than the last. Tens of thousands spent at high-end department stores, jewelry boutiques, designer fashion houses.
I dialed her number again. Straight to voicemail. Her professional voice - the same one she'd used in court today - played through the speaker.
"Damn it, Serena, you're really something." I muttered, ending the call.
The light in my study finally revealed what I'd been dreading to find. On my antique mahogany desk lay a thick envelope. Beside it, glinting accusingly in the low light, sat her wedding ring. The three-carat diamond ring felt impossibly heavy in my palm. How many times had I watched her twist it during difficult cases? How many times had she traced it while deep in thought?
Divorce papers. Each page perfectly prepared, including a detailed division of our marital assets. She wanted half of everything we'd built together.
"Alex." Her voice was cool when she finally answered my call. "It's late."
"Where are you?" The words came out harder than intended.
"Safe. And exercising my rights to community property while I still can."
"This is ridiculous," I said, running a hand through my hair. "Come home. We can talk about this rationally."
She sneered, "Like you talked to me in court today?"
I called out, "I was doing my job!"
"No," she cut me off. "You were doing what you always do - assuming you know best. Making decisions for everyone else. Well, here's my decision: I want a divorce."
"And then what?" I laughed harshly. "You haven't worked in four years, Serena. You gave up your career to be a housewife. How exactly do you plan to support yourself?"
She said coldly, "That's not your concern anymore. Just sign the papers, Alex."
"Or what?" The threat slipped out before I could stop it. "You think you'll find another position in Manhattan after this? My father's firm—"
"Will what?" Her laugh was bitter. "Blackball me? Go ahead. But first, explain to the bar association why you tried to prosecute your wife based on planted evidence."
The line went dead.
I stared at the divorce papers, at her ring catching the lamplight. Everything I'd built, everything I'd taken for granted, crumbling because I'd trusted the wrong person. Because I'd let pride blind me to the truth.
With a surge of anger, I grabbed a pen. Fine. If she wanted this so badly, she could have it. I scrawled my signature across the lines she'd so carefully marked, each stroke fueled by rage and wounded pride.
My hands shook as I opened the delivery app on my phone. Rush service. Highest priority. I wanted these papers out of my sight. Within minutes, a confirmation pinged - the courier was on his way.
Let her have her freedom. Let her see how far she could get without me, without my name, without my connections.
I signed the paper and called a same-day delivery service to send it to her. If she wanted to play, I would just play along with her. When she saw that I had really signed the paper, she would definitely regret it and come begging me to reconcile.