Page 12 of Ella Gets the D
Charles shifts in his chair. The tremor in his voice catches me by surprise. “Ella.”
Nope. Don’t use that tone or those eyes on me.
Bastard Charles is easy to hate. He’s arrogant, selfish, and only acts like he cares until he gets what he wants. I loathe that man. Despise him. I was comfortably miserable for too many years with him.
But this man? The one whose jade-green eyes are pleading with me? I haven’t seen him in a long time, and that breaks my heart.
The day we met is etched deep into my memories and the splintered thing called my heart. I’d made it to an Ivy League for grad school. Me, a girl from Bellaire, Ohio, who got a bachelor’s from a state school on a grant, was attending one of the most prestigious programs in the country for early childhood education.
I stuck out on campus like a big toe. I didn’t come from money or have a million-dollar trust fund waiting for me as a graduation present. My outfits were courtesy of the thrift store. And that shiny silver spoon? More like reused plastic from the takeout meals my mom and I would order from the diner.
I worked at a tiny coffee shop with free lunch on break and access to the French press as benefits. That’s where I saw him.
Time stopped when the bell over the front door chimed and his sharp eyes landed on me. My breath skipped at their intensity, which forced my gaze off the gorgeous man with neatly combed jet-black hair and back to the menus I was sorting. Charles was only a few years younger than I am now. His face was smooth,free of facial hair and the frown lines that come with a sixty-hour work week.
The corners of his eyes crinkled on his short walk to the counter. I spun in a circle twice before I crouched down to look at the pastry display. My stomach threatened to fall out of my ass that afternoon. I thought there was no way a guy like that would want a girl like me. Someone whose fanciest outfit was a vintage graphic tee with jeans and a gold belt. My attempt at one of those messy buns looked like a squirrel got caught in my hair and died. So I ducked out of sight in a sad attempt to hide behind a glass pastry display.
Those same jade-green eyes peered over the counter, and when our gazes locked, I got a half-smile and knew I was a goner.
Charles was out of my league. I should’ve paid attention to the warning signs and saved myself—just like I need to pay attention to the sudden urge to staple his nuts to the wall.
Grier’s voice pulls me back to the conference room and my pending divorce. “Please refrain from speaking directly to my client, Mr. Hudson. I advised Ms. Greene not to comment.”
He winces at Grier’s words but doesn’t correct her when she calls me by my maiden name. Charles is many things—proud, an asshole, and a cheater—and judging by the pained expression on his face…remorseful? That’s not right. In the sixteen years we’ve been together, he’s never apologized. But he’s also never looked so sad.
Dull eyes lock with mine. Did he ever love me, or was I some DIY project he could mold to fit into his life?
Grier looks to his lawyer. “I sent a digital copy to your email.”
“Thank you,” he says with a sigh, unable to look at Charles or stomach the thought of smut in his inbox.
“There’s additional footage of Ella and Charles’s encounter in the kitchen after his entanglement.” Grier closes her laptop and turns to Charles, who’s still staring at me. “I’m happy tosee you out and about after that knee to the genitals, Mr. Hudson.” That gets her a glare. “Are we ready to discuss a separation agreement? There’s no sense in denying the affair, as we have…what did you call it, Mr. Richardson? Oh yes. Clear and convincing proof.”
Charles’s hands tighten into fists. “No.”
Come again?He can’t be this spiteful.
“I messed up.” He swallows and sits straighter. “I’ll try couples counseling and whatever else it takes to make this work. Come home.”
Home.
I lived in a showroom, a curated image of Charles’s perfect family. I didn’t leave a home—I freed myself from a gilded cage.
“Mr. Hudson, my client is clear in her desire to dissolve this marriage. Furthermore, her return to the property is a good defense against adultery, to make it appear she resumed the relationship after the fact. There’s no condonation here.”
Mr. Richardson’s lips twitch. If he didn’t respect Grier before, he does now. “What are your terms?”
“Ms. Greene will have primary physical custody of the children and maintain joint legal custody with Mr. Hudson. My client requests child support and temporary spousal support until she secures employment. The marital property and assets in Mr. Hudson’s name will remain his. She will keep the SUV as her primary vehicle to transport the children.” Grier leans forward. “Ms. Greene wants a clean break. Accept this separation agreement so we can bypass a trial.”
A clean break.
Charles was making six figures before his twenty-fifth birthday. He comes from wealth, and he amassed his own fortune from different investments over the years. It’s why he wanted me to be his stay-at-home trophy and stop working two years into our marriage. Well, his puppeteer days end now.
I’ve got no strings on me.
The seven stages of a man about to lose his shit flash through his features. The blank stare directed at no one in particular morphs into squished eyebrows and a look that says,I can’t believe this bitch doesn’t want my money.
That last part is wrong. Idowantsomeof his money. As much as I want to dance into the street singing “You Don’t Own Me” like an honorary member of The First Wives Club, it’s real out here. Rent is expensive, bills laugh in your face, and the concept of savings will remain a friend with no benefits until I get a job and push the reset button on my life.
