Page 54 of Miss Understood

20

Luce

ShepardHartford’ssoon-to-beex-wifeand her attorney stare me down. “You’re actually going to use my client’s bed rest as an argument for your client’s infidelity?”

The venom in his tone doesn’t get past me.

“I’m simply stating that there was a mutual understanding. Your client entered into this marriage with full transparency regarding my client’s physical needs, as demonstrated by the circumstances surrounding the beginning of their relationship.”

Namely, her being a paid escort—not that I say that.

“At the time of the alleged infidelity, the physical agreement was not being met. As such, both parties were at fault, and that cannot be used as leverage for my client’s hard-earned assets.”

Do I even believe the words coming out of my mouth?

It’s total bullshit, but defending Shepard Hartford is an impossible task, so maybe if I talk long enough I’ll take the fight out of them.

In all honesty, I can’t believe I’m having this argument.

Scratch that.

I can believe it.

It makes me sick that I have to be on this side of the table. Defending a man who has zero regard for the woman who just birthed his child. That I’m actually using her doctor’s-ordered bed rest as excuse as to why he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants for five seconds.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but a female attorney on Mrs. Hartford’s side of the table just gave me a bit of side-eye that hints she’s thinking the same thing. That I’m a traitor to all women.

What if I am?

But I didn’t force this woman to marry a man who is so clearly incapable of commitment. She brought that on herself.

Shepard Hartford winks at his ex, and I shoot him a heated glare. I warned him not to engage, and now Weston King, her attorney, has an opening to go in for the kill. They dive into finances and start throwing numbers around, avoiding the infidelity for a moment. Shepard is unfazed with a grin on his face.

The sleazebag.

At least I can thank him for reinforcing my view on married men. Chasing what they want until they settle down and realize it’s no longer thrilling.

That thought leaves a knot in my stomach. Is that why Jesse is so interested in me all of a sudden? I’ve made it clear time and again that this is just sex in our temporary arrangement, leaving no room for him to get worried I’ll be sticking around after.

Is he high off the thrill of playing pretend? No threat of being tied down permanently or my ovaries exploding from wanting to have his kids? Because even if this marriage were real, I wouldn’t want that. My future is in the corporate world, not at home with babies.

At least, that’s what I’ve always envisioned.

Sitting across this table is a harsh reminder that pretending to be husband and wife is a different reality than actually being in a marriage. Someone wanting to know where you’re going and when you’ll be back. Arguing over money—who is making it and who is spending it. Sex that starts off hot as fuck until one or both parties get tired of it and look for it somewhere else.

I’d like to think, for the sake of my friends, that there’s a small portion of the population who can actually make marriage work and that they’re happy about it, no compromises. But it’s a unicorn of a theory.

Maybe I’ve just been on this side of the table too long, defending men like Shepard Hartford, who can’t go five minutes without getting his dick wet.

Weston pushes a paper across the table, and my eyes snap up to his gloating sneer. “The longer your client delays settlement, the higher our price tag is going to be. Given your client’s behavior, it’s in your best interest to keep this out of court.”

“Behavior?” I repeat, and he nods his head. “You meanallegedbehavior.”

I push the paper back across the table. Whether I agree with the words coming out of my mouth or not, I have a job to do.

“Need I remind you that all you have are accusations. They might be nice for our little table banter, but they won’t fly in a courtroom. So unless you have proof of thisallegedbehavior, I expect you to rereview our settlement request with your client. Because half is all she’s going to get—which is a lot more than we should offer, given the length of the marriage and her lack of contributions to it.”

The room is quiet, and all eyes are on me. On the outside, I try to wear the face I know I should: cold, unfazed. Going in for the kill. But on the inside, I’m melting. I don’t feel vindicated or right. My own words sit like bile on my tongue.

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