My Husband Abandoned My Father to Die

The courthouse corridor was all white marble and echoes. I'd just finished a settlement conference on the ninth floor. My heels clicked against the stone as I walked toward the elevators, case file tucked under my arm.

Then I heard my name.

"Sloane."

The voice came from behind me. Warm. Familiar. The kind of voice that used to say my name in the dark.

I stopped walking.

I didn't turn around. Not yet. I stood there and counted to three, making my face smooth, making my hands loose.

Then I turned.

Raphael Gordon stood fifteen feet away in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. He looked good. That was the worst part. Five years in London had polished him into something sleek and expensive. His hair was shorter. His jaw was sharper. But his eyes were the same—dark and steady, like he still knew me.

He smiled. Small. Careful. Like he was approaching something that might bolt.

"I thought that was you," he said, walking closer. "I wasn't sure at first. You cut your hair."

I didn't answer.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Different from what he used to wear. Everything about him was different now. Everything except the way he looked at me.

"You look good," he said softly. "Really good. I've been hoping I'd run into you."

My throat was tight. I made it loosen.

"Have you," I said. Not a question.

He nodded. His smile widened just a little. "I know it's been a while. I know things ended badly. But I've thought about you every day, Sloane. Every single day."

He reached out.

His hand closed around my forearm, warm and gentle, like he had the right.

"I'd really love to sit down and talk," he said. "Catch up. There's so much I want to say to you."

I looked down at his hand on my arm.

I looked at his face.

Then I slapped him.

The sound cracked through the corridor like a gunshot. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. A paralegal froze mid-step, mouth open.

Raphael's head snapped to the side. His hand fell away from my arm. He staggered back half a step, palm flying to his cheek.

I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.

"Don't ever touch me again."

I turned and walked toward the elevators. My legs were steady. My hands were steady. Behind me, the corridor stayed silent.

I pressed the call button and waited.

The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside and turned around.

Raphael was still standing there, hand on his face, staring at me like I'd just spoken a language he didn't know.

The doors closed.

I rode down alone.

My hand was burning.

---

Two days later, Bodhi knocked on my office door at nine in the morning.

"He's here," Bodhi said.

I looked up from my computer. "Who?"

"Raphael Gordon. Downstairs in the lobby. Says he's here for a cross-case consultation."

I set down my pen. "We don't have any open cases with Mercer & Vane."

"I know."

I looked at Bodhi. He looked back at me, steady and patient.

"Do you want me to handle it?" he asked.

I thought about it. Then I shook my head. "Let him wait."

Bodhi smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Copy that."

He left.

I went back to my emails. I answered three. I reviewed a motion draft. I drank my coffee.

Twenty minutes later, Bodhi knocked again.

"He's still down there," Bodhi said. "Looking uncomfortable."

"Good," I said.

Bodhi leaned against the doorframe. "You want me to go down there and make him more uncomfortable?"

I looked at him. "Yes."

He grinned and disappeared.

I stood and walked to my window. Fourteen floors up, I could see the street below. Cars. Pedestrians. The city moving like nothing mattered.

I stayed there until my phone buzzed.

Bodhi's text was short: *Done. He left.*

I texted back: *What did you say?*

Three dots appeared. Then: *The truth.*

---

I found Bodhi in the break room ten minutes later, pouring coffee into a mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST LAWYER.

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

Bodhi didn't look at me. He stirred his coffee slowly, deliberately.

"I told him he had a lot of nerve showing his face in this building," Bodhi said. His voice was calm. Flat. "I told him Colten gave him a life. And he let him die."

My chest went tight.

"What did he say?"

Bodhi finally looked at me. His eyes were hard.

"He asked what I meant. Like he didn't know. Like he thought I was talking about Colten's career or some shit." Bodhi shook his head. "So I stared at him. Didn't say another word. Just stared."

"And?"

"And he left." Bodhi took a sip of his coffee. "But I saw his face, Sloane. He didn't know. He really didn't know."

I stood there in the break room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and felt something cold slide through my chest.

Raphael didn't know my father was dead.

He'd been in London for five years, building his career, living his life, and he didn't know.

I turned and walked back to my office.

I closed the door.

I sat down at my desk and pulled open the bottom drawer.

The manila folder was right where I'd left it.

I opened it and looked at the photocopy of my father's final note.

*I lived my life with integrity. That is all I have left to give.*

I read it twice.

Then I picked up my phone and texted Bodhi.

*Let him come back. Next time, send him up.*