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In the first couple of days, I debated whether to call her, but the fear of falling for a woman again always stopped me. But fate brought her back to me.
Picking up the fork, I cut into a mushroom ravioli and pop it into my mouth.
“Test me, sweetheart.”
Kristine hesitates, a blush warming her cheeks. Emotions flit across her face, her eyes darken with memories before she steels herself. The world outside moves on, indifferent to her turmoil.
“After what felt like an eternity of courtroom battles and emotional upheaval, the ink on my divorce papers finally dried a few months back.”
I nod, not wanting to interrupt her since I'm interested in the story.
The Prescott divorce should have a section in The New York Times. I know the minor ins and outs of their messy divorce, but my growing interest in all things Kristine Prescott is about the details. The last report was about her ex was holding out for a multi-million-dollar payout from the Sterns.
“Brandon can't accept defeat, and when my folks threatened to file charges, he signed. But not before making me pay for thebadpress.” Kristine states, playfully pushing the ravioli back and forth on her plate. “He doesn't particularly like it, the rejection or that the divorce gave him very bad publicity. So he's punishing me by taking away the one thing I want from him.”
“Your son.”
She nods. “Asher.”
Kristine’s voice trembles slightly as she begins to speak of Brandon and Asher, her tone a stark juxtaposition against the serenity of her surroundings. The tension in the room pulses as if the walls are pressing in with the weight of her confession.
She folds over, her sobs filling the silence. I round the table and gather her in my arms, kissing the top of her head. The room feels smaller, more intimate, as if her vulnerability and the truth behind it have sucked the air from the apartment.
“Don't cry, sweetheart. I'm here.” My embrace tightens, my resolve to shield her from any more harm is fierce and unwavering. “He's pressing for shared custody.”
Her reply is resolute. “No. Full.”
There are other stories. “And are the other stories true? About the abuse?”
“Brandon wouldn't dare lay a finger on Asher.”
Anger simmers to the surface. “And you, Kristine? Did he harm you?”
“Yes.” Her admission is barely audible, laced with raw emotion. “The last thing I want is for my son to mirror his father's ways,” she murmurs, the words catching in her throat.
I pull her even closer.
Kristine sighs. “I have money, but he has power. People protect him while he makes me look like a negligent mother. Thankfully, he's scared of my parents. But it doesn't stop him from fucking with me.”
“How can I help?”
But Kristine shakes her head. “You can't. That's the joy of being married to a politician. He's BFFs with judges, lawyers, and the police. He won't stop until he forces me to go back.”
No. That'll never happen.
She covers her face with her hands, rocking. “I can't lose my son, Ethan. If the judge rules in Brandon's favor, I'll be forced to go back. I'll have to, to protect Asher.”
She begins to sob, and then I can no longer contain myself.
I lift her face to see her beautiful green eyes. “Hey, look at me. That won't happen.”
Kristine shakes her head. Even with her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, she looks beautiful. With her dark hair falling over her shoulders, the sleeveless cream sweater she's wearing fits in harmony with the warm tone of her skin.
Tears brim in her eyes as she voices the painful truth. “What hurts most is I picked him. I chose Brandon, and now...” She pauses, the weight of her decision heavy in her silence. “Now he'll do anything to get me back, even if it means making our son a pawn in his twisted game.” Her voice cracks, a mix of anger and sorrow.
“I promise you that won't happen,” I assure her, my thumb gently brushing away the damp trails on her cheeks.
“How can you be so sure?” she whispers, skepticism in her tone laced with a faint glimmer of hope.
