Page 1 of Billion Dollar Dispute

Prologue

Jemima

“Dad, can we goplay some basketball?” Chad asks, bouncing his orange ball excitedly as he reaches my bedroom. Following behind him, I look over Chad's shoulder to see my husband, Butch, lying on the bed, partially covered by blankets, wearing just his black boxers and a stained white T-shirt. Lately, he hasn’t been taking care of himself. His beard is matted, and his blond hair, streaked with gray, hangs long and unruly.

The same man who used to get up at the crack of dawn for morning gym sessions…who once cared. He started slowly, missing a workout here, canceling plans there. I told myself it was just a phase, that the stress at work would pass. But months stretched on, and the man I loved faded, replaced by someone I barely recognized. Because of that, we’ve been fighting about everything lately.

He rolls over, mumbling something incomprehensible, and my blood boils. It’s Saturday. He used to love Saturdays. Now our apartment room’s a mess, there’s clothes throwneverywhere, and it smells stale. He’s changed…become lazy, showing no care or attention toward me or Chad anymore. I’m about to say something about it, but Chad beats me to it. “Please, Dad,” Chad tries again, his voice softer this time. Hopeful.

“Just give me a minute, kid,” he slurs after another late night. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it hurts. A minute? He’s been giving us the bare minimum for a while now. Nights out with friends instead of being here. Missing dinners, missing bedtime stories. Missing us. The distance is making it hard to want to stay together. He’s forty-five, yet for the last twelve months, he’s been acting like a twenty-one-year-old.

I walk out, head to the kitchen, grab the bottle of Tylenol, and return to our room, tossing the bottle onto the bed next to him. “Get up and go hang out with him.”

He doesn’t even flinch or look at me...not even for Chad. My heart breaks a little more, but I push it down. I can’t fall apart. Not now.

I grit my teeth to prevent myself from yelling at him for stumbling in at three a.m. When Chad—who’s six—woke from a nightmare, the bed was still empty. After I finally got him back to sleep and settled in bed, I heard Butch stomp through our front door. It wasn’t five minutes later and he climbed into bed, fully clothed. I have no idea when he lost his jeans, but they’re off now. Shaking my head, I go back to cleaning the house, making extra noise to fuck with his headache more.

As I scrub the counters, I think about how this can’t go on. I won’t let it. I’ve been telling myself I’ll talk to him. That I’ll sit him down and force him to see what he’s doing to us. To Chad. But every time I get close, Chad is around, or he leaves forwork.

Half an hour later, he ventures out of the bedroom with red-rimmed eyes and a deep scowl. He looks ten years older today. I look away, pretending it doesn’t hurt to see him like this.

“Don’t come back for at least two hours. I’d like to finish cleaning the house,” I say through a clenched jaw, needing a moment to calm the rage inside me since Chad’s in the next room.

“Quit nagging me, woman.”

Don’t snap in front of Chad.

I take a shaky breath, before replying, “Just go.”

They leave, and I sag against the counter. This can’t go on. Tomorrow we’re having the conversation.

When he returns a few hours later, Chad can’t stop talking about all the cool shots his dad took. I put on the biggest, fakest smile and listen as he talks. Butch retreats to our room while I move Chad to the living room to play Chutes and Ladders. Afterwards, I peek into the bedroom, finding Butch still passed out, so I head out to the store with Chad. Not wanting Chad to see his dad in his disgusting state, I make sure to take our time picking out food items, and when we return, I start baking muffins for Chad to take to school next week and then get started on dinner.

A few hours later, I hear Butch bark out, “Are you making dinner?” He’s still lying on our bed. With his mood swings out of control, I feel like I’m walking on eggshells in my own home.

“Yeah. Your favorite…pasta bake,” I call back.

The TV murmurs in the background with a cartoon our six-year-old loves to watch. Butch mumbles something I can’t hear.

“Are you going to get up?” I ask.

“Give me a fucking break, Jem,” he snaps.

“Don’t swear,” I hiss, annoyed he doesn’t care about his influence on his son.

A knock sounds at the door. “Are you expecting someone?” I ask, tossing a bottle of beer into the trash.

“No,” he replies with a huff.

Realizing Butch isn’t going to get up and answer it, I sigh. I stop preparing dinner and move to open the door, but before I can reach it, it bursts open with a crash. I scream as four police officers storm in, weapons drawn, the door now off its hinges.

The officers move inside, and one goes straight to our bedroom. “Butch, on the ground! Hands where I can see them.”

My heart slams into my throat. “Chad!” I gasp, my eyes darting wildly around the living room. I spot him frozen near his toys.

“It’s okay. Come here.” My voice cracks as I rush to him, scooping him up, holding him so tight he’s practically molded to me. His little hands cling to my neck like a lifeline.

“Mommy, what’s happening?” Chad’s voice is high-pitched, his breaths warm and quick against my neck.

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