Divorce Attorney
"She represents his ex-wife. Discovers she wants him for herself."
The deposition is a disaster.
My soon-to-be-ex-wife, Melissa, sits across the conference table looking smug. She's already gotten the house, the cars, the stock options. Now she wants alimony—fifty thousand credits a month for "lifestyle maintenance."
I've been outmaneuvered at every turn.
But I'm not looking at Melissa.
I'm looking at her attorney.
Victoria Ashford is everything Melissa isn't.
Fifty years old. Senior partner at Ashford & Associates. She's built like a force of nature—thick everywhere, curves straining against a suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Her skin is dark mahogany, her hair a silver-streaked natural crown, her face beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with youth.
She's also two-fifty, easily. Maybe more. And she moves through the legal proceedings like a predator, dismantling my defenses with surgical precision.
"Mr. Chen, you claim you earned your income independently, but the record shows—"
"I know what the record shows."
"Then you understand why my client is entitled to—"
"Your client is entitled to nothing." I lean forward. "She cheated on me for three years. She emptied our joint accounts before I even knew there was a problem. And now she's using the system to strip me of everything I built."
"The court doesn't care about infidelity, Mr. Chen. Only assets."
"Then the court is wrong."
Something flickers in her eyes. Not sympathy—something sharper. Interest.
"Let's take a break," she says.
She finds me in the hallway.
I'm pacing, trying to burn off the rage that's been building since this nightmare began. Three years of marriage. Three years of building something together. And now I'm watching it all dissolve into legalese and billable hours.
"Mr. Chen."
I turn.
She's alone. Arms crossed. Watching me with those sharp eyes.
"If you want to make an offer, you can talk to my attorney."
"I'm not here about the case." She moves closer. "I'm here because you're the first person I've seen in these proceedings who actually fights."
"Everyone fights in divorce."
"Everyone argues. They whine, they plead, they try to negotiate from weakness." She stops in front of me. "You just looked at the entire legal system and told it to go fuck itself. That's different."
"Is this supposed to be a compliment?"
"It's an observation." Her hand finds my arm. "I've been doing family law for twenty-five years. Do you know what I've learned about marriage?"
"That it's a trap."
"That it's a contract. Like any other. And like any contract—" She squeezes my arm. "—it should only bind people who actually want to be bound."
"What are you suggesting?"
I know what she's suggesting. The way she's looking at me—up and down, evaluating, like she's calculating my worth in ways that have nothing to do with assets—makes it obvious.
"I'm suggesting that this case is going to take months. Your wife—ex-wife—will drag it out as long as possible. By the time it's over, you'll be exhausted, broke, and too bitter to trust anyone."
"And the alternative?"
"I could make this go away. Tonight." Her hand moves from my arm to my chest. "One conversation with Melissa. One revised settlement. You keep what matters; she gets enough to move on."
"That's not how opposing counsel works."
"No. It's how I work. When I find something I want."
"And what do you want?"
Her smile is slow. Predatory.
"You. Tonight. My hotel room. In exchange for your freedom."
I should refuse.
This is beyond unethical—an attorney sleeping with her client's opponent. If anyone found out, she'd be disbarred. I'd have grounds to throw out the entire case.
But I'm tired.
Tired of fighting. Tired of watching Melissa win. Tired of being the reasonable one in a situation that has no reasonable outcomes.
"What's the room number?"
Her smile widens.
"1847. The Grand Meridian. Ten o'clock."
She turns and walks away.
I watch her go—watch the sway of those hips, the confidence in every step—and wonder what the hell I'm getting into.
The Grand Meridian is the kind of hotel where scandals happen quietly.
I take the elevator to the eighteenth floor. Find room 1847. Knock twice.
She opens the door in a silk robe.
The suit is gone. The professional mask is gone. What's left is just her—Victoria, not Attorney Ashford—and a body that makes my mouth go dry.
"You came."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I thought you might come to your senses." She steps back, lets me in. The room is all dark wood and white linens, dominated by a bed that could sleep armies. "Changed your mind about compromising yourself for a favorable settlement."
"Is that what this is? Compromising?"
"It's whatever you want it to be." She closes the door. The lock clicks. "But I should tell you something before we go any further."
"What?"
"I was going to recommend a favorable settlement anyway. Your wife's claims are inflated. The court would have seen through them eventually." She moves toward me. "This—" She gestures between us. "—isn't payment for services. It's something I wanted. Separately."
"Then why the offer? The hotel room?"
"Because I've spent twenty-five years being professional." She reaches for the tie on her robe. "And you're the first man in a decade who made me want to be something else."
The robe falls.
She's naked beneath.
Every inch of her exposed—breasts heavy and full, hanging to her belly, nipples dark and already hardening. A stomach that rounds soft and warm, marked with the silver lines of life. Hips wide enough to shelter kingdoms, thighs that could crush opposition.
"Well?" She spreads her arms. "Is this what you want? An old, fat attorney who should know better?"
"You're not old. You're not fat." I move toward her, pull her against me. "You're the most powerful woman I've ever seen. And I want to make you fall apart."
"Bold words from a man who's losing his divorce."
"I'm not losing anymore." I kiss her. "Not tonight."
I push her toward the bed.
She goes willingly—this woman who commands courtrooms, who dismantles marriages for a living. She lets me push her down onto white sheets, lets me climb over her, lets me worship the body she's offered.
"Tell me what you want," I murmur against her skin.
"Everything. Start at my mouth and work your way down."
I obey.
Kiss her lips—soft, demanding, tasting like expensive wine. Trail down her throat, her collarbones, the vast landscape of her chest. Take one nipple in my mouth while my hand finds the other, and the sound she makes—a low, rumbling moan—tells me I'm on the right track.
"Yes—don't stop—"
I don't stop.
I work my way down her belly—kiss every roll, every fold, every inch of warm brown skin. By the time I reach between her thighs, she's already wet, already gasping, already gripping the sheets like she's afraid of floating away.
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Taste me."
I eat her like I'm arguing a case.
Methodical. Thorough. Building my argument one piece of evidence at a time. My tongue finds her clit and presents Exhibit A—slow circles that make her moan. Then Exhibit B—harder pressure, focused attention. Then Exhibit C—two fingers inside her, curving to find the spot that makes her scream.
"Fuck—James—yes—"
She comes on my tongue. Once. Twice. I don't let up until she's shaking, until she's begging, until the powerful attorney who walked into my deposition this morning is reduced to nothing but need.
"Inside me—now—"
I rise over her. Position myself. And when I push inside—
"God—"
She's tight and hot and perfect, and the way she wraps around me—physically, emotionally, completely—is nothing like the cold marriage I'm escaping.
This is alive.
I fuck her like I'm fighting for something.
Maybe I am. Fighting for the person I was before Melissa broke me. Fighting for the belief that intimacy can exist without betrayal. Fighting for something that feels like real instead of whatever performance my marriage became.
"Harder—"
I give her harder. Brace myself on the headboard and pound into her, watching her body ripple, watching those magnificent breasts bounce, hearing sounds that echo off hotel walls.
"You're—fuck—you're incredible—"
"Tell me more."
"You're everything I didn't know I wanted. You're—" I thrust deeper. "—powerful and soft and real and I want to keep doing this forever."
"Bold promises—from a man I'm supposed to be destroying in court—"
"Then destroy me. Here. Now. Every way that matters."
She comes with a scream.
I come with her name on my lips.
We lie in hotel sheets that will never be the same.
Her weight is half on top of me, soft and warm and grounding. Somewhere in the city, Melissa is probably celebrating what she thinks is an easy victory.
She has no idea.
"The settlement will be fair," Victoria says finally. "You keep your business. She gets the house and reasonable support. Nothing more."
"And if she objects?"
"She won't. I'll explain that her case has... weaknesses. Weaknesses that might become public if she pushes too hard."
"Isn't that blackmail?"
"It's negotiation." She kisses my chest. "Everything is negotiation, James. The question is what you're willing to offer."
"What am I offering you?"
"Tonight, for now." She props herself up. "And maybe—if you're interested—something longer."
"You want to keep seeing me?"
"I want to stop pretending I don't have desires. I'm fifty years old. I've spent my entire career putting other people's relationships back together or tearing them apart. I've never had one of my own that mattered." She meets my eyes. "You could matter. If you wanted to."
The divorce finalizes in three weeks.
Fastest resolution in Neo-Boston family court history. Melissa is furious—screams at Victoria in the hallway about betrayal and ethics violations—but there's nothing she can do. The settlement is signed. The case is closed.
And I'm free.
"What happens now?" I ask Victoria.
We're in her office. She's behind her desk, every inch the professional, no sign of what's been happening between us for the past month.
"Now you rebuild your life. Start over. Find someone who actually deserves you."
"What if I've already found her?"
She goes still.
"James—"
"I'm not looking for someone my age, someone 'appropriate,' someone who checks all the boxes I'm supposed to want." I move around her desk. "I'm looking for you. The woman who saw me at my lowest and wanted me anyway. The woman who fights like hell and fucks like poetry. The woman who—"
She kisses me.
Hard. Desperate. Nothing like the controlled attorney who destroys marriages for a living.
"You're insane," she says against my mouth.
"Probably. Is that a yes?"
"It's a—" She pauses. "—closing argument. In favor."
Six months later, we're at a restaurant that doesn't exist on any list.
Private room. Candlelight. A table that seats two but barely fits her presence.
"People will talk," she says.
"Let them."
"I'm old enough to be your—"
"My what? My colleague? My partner? The woman I'm going to spend the rest of my life with?" I take her hand. "I don't care what boxes you don't check, Victoria. I care that you make me feel like fighting is worth it."
"Even when we're on the same side?"
"Especially then." I pull out the ring I've been carrying for a month. "Marry me. Be my advocate for life. Represent me in every negotiation that matters."
She stares at the ring. At me. At the life I'm offering.
"You know I'll win every argument."
"I'm counting on it."
She laughs—really laughs, young and surprised and full of joy.
"Yes," she says. "God help you, yes."
The wedding is small.
Her colleagues think she's lost her mind. My friends don't understand. Melissa sends a card that's probably meant as an insult but arrives like a gift.
None of it matters.
Because when Victoria walks toward me—fifty years old, silver-haired, curves straining against white silk—I see the only verdict I've ever cared about.
Not guilty.
Not alone.
Finally, finally free.
The judge pronounces us married.
And somewhere in Neo-Boston, a divorce attorney and her client's ex-husband build something that no court could ever dissolve.
Case closed.
Forever.