Page 5 of Blurred Lines

"Okay," I mutter to myself. "Best get some shut-eye."

But life, as always, is an expert at throwing me a curveball. The shrill cry of a call cuts through the air, drawing my attention back to my phone.

With a scowl, I stare at the screen illuminating the name Devina. Just the sight of it sparks a phantom itch under my collar, the cloying scent of her heavy perfume still haunting me from our last courtroom war.

I know better than to answer, especially with my mood as dark as a storm cloud. But caution? That's never been my style. "You," I growl into the phone, my voice rough as gravel. "What do you want? Haven't you already bled me dry? Or do you need my blood for your nightly rituals?"

Her voice, syrupy sweet, oozes through the speaker. "Just a friendly reminder about tomorrow evening. Brian is spending the evening at my place."

"I don't need your reminders," I snap back, the words sharp and bitter. "The date's burned into my calendar. In red, no less."

"Red ink, huh? Fancy," Devina drawls, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. I picture her perfectly manicured fingertip tracing the embossed leather of the President, the very chair I used to drown my sorrows in during the prenup negotiations.

Now, it's her throne in the high-rise condo that I bought, and apparently, wasn't "mature" enough to share.

"It's called highlighting priorities." I grit my teeth. "Like not letting my son become your next accessory."

The silence on the other end is almost audible. I can practically see the gears in her designer brain turning, searching for the right emotional weapon. "Oh, don't be dramatic, Caeleb," she finally purrs, "bringing Brian into this is just low."

"Low?" I scoff. "You're the one using our six-year-old as a bargaining chip in your latest quest for social dominance."

"Bargaining chip?" she feigns offense. "I just want what's best for Brian, darling. And that, unfortunately, doesn't include living in your shoebox apartment with that … vibrant collection of mismatched socks."

I glance down at the offending sock mountain (clean laundry was another casualty of the divorce) and snort.

"Are you sure you won't have another nerve-shattering headache tomorrow morning?" I counter, my voice low and dangerous. "Funny how they only strike when there's damning paperwork to sign."

"Oh, honey," she coos, the sweetness dripping with venom. "Don't play the victim. You were the one who insisted on that ridiculous 'ironclad' prenup. Remember, the one that left you with your sock collection and a lifetime of therapy bills?"

I swear, if I could shoot lasers from my eyes, the penthouse across town would be sporting a very expensive scorch mark right now. "That prenup," I say, each word measured, "was your idea. You spun it as 'protecting us both,' while secretly lining your Birkin bag with my future."

Silence. This time, it's pregnant, not icy. I can practically hear the wheels in her head spinning like a hamster on espresso.

"Fine," she finally concedes, her voice clipped. "Maybe I, uh, 'nudged' things a little in my favor. But that was then, and this is now. Let's be adults, darling. Custody battle won't be pretty for anyone, especially little Brian."

"Adults?" I bark a laugh. "You wouldn't know the definition of the word if it slapped you."

"Look," she sighs, the faux-weariness dripping thicker than her self-tanner. "Why can't we be reasonable? Shared custody, fancy schools, the occasional weekend at your … charming apartment. Think of Brian, Caeleb. Wouldn't he thrive in a stable environment?"

"Stable?" I repeat, incredulous. "Stable like the shifting sands of your designer mood swings? Stable like a yacht in a hurricane?"

A beat of silence, then a grudging chuckle. "Touché, darling. You always did have a way with words. But seriously, think about it. Shared custody. It's the mature thing to do."

I stare out the window at the city that used to be mine, at the life that used to be ours. Shared custody. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but the image of Brian, caught in the crossfire of her ambition, twists my gut.

He deserves better than this. Devina is a pain in my ass, but she doesn't hate her kid. And I don't need the added grief of dragging my boy through endless courtroom sessions.

"Fine," I concede, the word tasting like ashes. "Shared custody. But one condition."

"Condition?" she drawls, intrigued.

"The Birkin comes with me." I swallow, the smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

A surprised laugh explodes from her end. "You're impossible, Caeleb."

"And you," I counter, "are predictable. Now, about that shared custody agreement …"

With the phone to my ear, I walk to the window. The city lights wink at me. Brian's laugh echoes in my mind, a reminder that even in the ruins of lost dreams, some things are worth fighting for, Birkin or no Birkin.

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