Page 157 of Ink Me Three Times
Freddie doesn’t bother with small talk. Just plants himself in front of her desk and says, “If Trina wants money, fine. I’ll pay. But I’m not buying silence. I’m buying freedom.”
Mitchell nods, folding his arms like he’s expecting a fight. He probably is.
Samara doesn’t flinch. “I’ve reviewed everything you sent me. She’s asking for a buy out. A lump sum plus recurring payments, no formal custody change. Just a verbal agreement she stays gone.”
Freddie’s jaw tightens. His fists are balled so hard his knuckles are ghost white.
“No deal,” he says. “Not a damn chance.”
“Didn’t think so,” she replies, flipping a page. “That’s why I drafted this.”
She slides a folder across the table. Inside, legal terms, fine print, strategy. I skim it, but I already know what it says. We’ve talked this out in the back room of the shop, over beers and burritos and long, ugly nights.
She gets a payout. One time. Generous, but final. In exchange, she signs away every legal right she’s got. Full, permanent custody to Freddie. No visitation. No second chances. No loopholes.
She takes the money and disappears. Or she walks away with nothing.
Mitchell blows out a breath, arms still crossed tight. Freddie doesn’t blink.
“Will it hold up?” he asks.
Samara nods. “If she signs it? Absolutely. It’s ironclad. She can’t come back a year from now with a sob story and a new lawyer. Once this is done, it’s done.”
“Good,” Freddie says. Voice of steel. “I want it done.”
Outside, the rain’s picked up again. Not pouring, just that slow, persistent kind that soaks through your hoodie if you stand still too long. We don’t move. Not right away.
“She’s gonna fight it,” Mitchell says after a beat. “Try to twist it. Make you the villain.”
“She already did that,” Freddie mutters. “This time, I get to be the one with the pen.”
I nod once. Not because I agree, though I do, but because I know what it’s costing him. Freddie’s not the kind of guy who likes drawing lines. But he’s doing it anyway. For Penny. For Ivy. For himself, even if he won’t admit it.
“You’re doing the right thing,” I say.
Freddie doesn’t look at me, but he hears it. I can tell. There’s a flicker in the set of his shoulders. A tiny shift. Maybe, for the first time in months, he can breathe.
Mitchell finally lets out a deep breath. “I need a sandwich and two Advil.”
“Yeah,” I say, heading toward the truck. “Freedom makes you hungry.”
“One thing at a time,” Freddie says, while texting furiously. “I want to get this sorted. Sooner rather than later…”
We don’t go with Freddie to talk. We go to stand.
Back him up. Hold the line if things spiral. Not that he asked, but that’s kind of the point. Freddie never asks. He just shoulders things until they crack.
The meeting spot is a generic chain coffee shop near the courthouse. Neutral ground. Public enough that Trina won’t throw a scene.
Hopefully.
She’s already there when we walk in, seated near the back, oversized sunglasses, half finished iced drink sweating on the table. Her smile stretches when she sees Freddie. Too wide. Too white.
Then she spots Mitchell and me and her smile dies on the vine.
Smart girl.
We hang back. Close enough to intervene if we need to, but not close enough to crowd. We blend into the wall, arms crossed, coffee in hand, two matching scowls with tattoos. Not exactly subtle, but subtle’s overrated.
