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BAD LUCK, HARD LOVE
AVELYN PAIGE
CHAPTER 1
CHARLOTTE
SIX MONTHS AGO
I am brave. I am strong. I am almost free. It’s the mantra I have been repeating to myself since the second I walked into this courthouse, knowing that behind a closed door, he’s there, haunting me in flesh and blood while waiting for his chance to strip me down even further than he already has.
“It’s time,” my attorney, Gail, mutters as she ushers me into a small meeting room outside the county’s courtrooms. While we could have held this meeting at his attorney’s office or mine, Gail had opted to use neutral ground. A peace offering to the monster who now sits across from me, a smirk drawn on his lips. Terrance and I have been married for seven years—a hellscape since I said ‘I do.’
The wooden table between us is too close for my liking. He stares at me with that piercing stare of his. I try to avoid meeting his gaze, but my eyes involuntarily drift back toward his. There’s something different in his eyes today. Something I haven’t seen before. Fear maybe—the mirror image of my face for the last seven years.
“Are we ready to begin?” his attorney asks.
Terrance takes a deep breath, and for a moment, it seems like he’s about to say something. But he doesn’t.
My attorney straightens in her seat, steeling herself, before she begins, “Has your client had a chance to review our latest offer?”
His attorney shuffles the copy of our latest that Gail had provided him. “We have.”
“And?” my attorney drawls.
“No deal.”
My attorney scoffs. “This settlement is more than fair considering the nature of their seven-year relationship.”
“You’re asking for twice the amount of alimony due to Mrs. Roberts. California law states you’re only entitled to three and a half years of alimony. You’re asking for seven years of spousal support.”
“Spousal support that she is more than due.”
Terrance seems lost in thought, not paying attention to the lawyers’ bickering. I take the opportunity to take a closer look at him. Despite everything, he still looks handsome, but his face is drawn with circles under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping.
“Your client’s history of domestic violence with Mrs. Roberts says otherwise.” The brashness of her statement snaps me back to reality.
“Hearsay. You can’t prove it.”
My attorney draws a stack of papers and images from her file and spreads them on the table in front of Terrance and his attorney. Terrance’s gaze immediately shifts away from the images of my bruised face and the medical reports—the damage done by him and his fists.
“Is this proof enough for you?”
“Anything could have caused these marks. Accidents happen, Gail.”
“Do they, Richard?” she fires back at him. “Look…” she says, keeping her voice low and controlled. “You can try to deny it all you want, but the evidence is right here in front of us.” My attorney shoots me a quick glance, then turns to Terrance and his attorney. “Either your client can pay the spousal support my client has requested, or these images will be sent over to the judge presiding over this divorce.”
Terrance’s face contorts in anger. “You fucking bitch. You think you can just ruin my life like this?” he spits out. “You’re the one who provoked me. You’re the one who made me do it.”
I roll my eyes—typical abuser mentality, blaming the victim for their actions. My attorney answers for me.
“Mrs. Roberts suffered at the hands of your client. Considering the nature of the abuse, taking this before the judge would not be in your best interest. Mrs. Roberts is willing to make a clean break provided your client agrees to the terms we’ve laid out. Truthfully, she could take Mr. Roberts for everything he’s got with the amount of evidence against him, but she isn’t, against my counsel. The deal is simple, Mr. Roberts. Take it or we take it to the judge. The ball is in your court.”
“You think you can shake me down over a couple of bruises, Charlotte? You’re delusional,” Terrance spits out before his attorney can stop him from incriminating himself.
For years, I lived under his thumb. I was his little punching bag when things didn’t go his way at work or one of his playthings didn’t perform to his liking. The number of women he’d slept with during our marriage had to be in the triple digits. Secretaries, servers at the bar their company frequented, and even some of his business partners’ spouses. Terrance could charm the pants off anyone. He certainly managed that with me and look where it got me—seven years of hell. A hell I tried for years to get away from him, but every attempt I made to escape he thwarted. I had once managed to escape for three days before he tracked me down at a motel two states away. No matter what I did to get away from him had been useless until he slipped in public. His protected reputation shattered in seconds after he struck me in front of his business partner, giving me my out and the evidence I needed to force his hand into a divorce.
I take a deep breath. I can feel my heart racing, and I want out of this room. I want to get away from this hatred and blame, but I know that if I don’t stand up for myself now, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.
