Chapter Twenty-Five
Alicia's POV
The lawyer's office smelled like old books. Mr. Harrison was a middle-aged man with kind eyes and graying hair. He gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs across from his massive oak desk.
"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," I said, settling into the seat.
"Of course." He pulled out a legal pad and pen. "Now, Mrs. Blackwood, I understand you're here to discuss filing for divorce?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been married?"
"Two years. Almost two and a half."
He wrote that down. "And are there any children from this marriage?"
"No. No children."
Thank God. I couldn't imagine bringing a child into that nightmare.
"Good. That simplifies things considerably." He looked up at me. "Now, I need to ask you some difficult questions. Has there been any physical abuse during your marriage?"
My throat tightened. "Yes."
His expression softened. "I'm very sorry to hear that. Have you documented any of these incidents? Photos? Medical records? Police reports?"
I shook my head. "No. I... I never reported it."
"That's alright. Many victims don't. But it would have made the case stronger." He made another note. "What about emotional or verbal abuse?"
"Constantly."
"Infidelity?"
"Yes. Multiple times."
"Can you prove it?"
I thought of Bianca. Of walking in on them in the study. "I caught him with another woman. There were witnesses. The household staff."
"Good. That's very good." He continued writing. "Now, are there any shared assets? Property? Bank accounts? Investments?"
"Everything is in his name or the family's name. I came into this marriage with nothing."
"And what are you seeking in this divorce? Alimony? A settlement?"
I sat up straighter. "Nothing. I don't want anything from him or his family. I just want out."
Mr. Harrison studied me for a long moment. "Mrs. Blackwood, I understand the desire to simply walk away. But you've endured abuse for over two years. You're entitled to compensation."
"I don't want their money. I just want my freedom."
He sighed but nodded. "Very well. That actually makes this much simpler. Without children or contested assets, we can file for a no-fault divorce. Given your husband's current medical condition, we'll need to wait until he's conscious to serve him the papers."
My heart sank. "How long will that take?"
"It depends on when he wakes up. But I can have the papers drawn up and ready within a week. Once he's served, there's typically a waiting period—"
"How long?"
"In this state, minimum of sixty days. But given the circumstances—the abuse, the infidelity—we might be able to expedite. Still, you're looking at three to four months minimum."
Four months. That felt like forever.
"However," he continued, "I can draft a legal separation agreement today if you'd like. It won't be a divorce, but it would legally establish that you're no longer cohabiting as husband and wife. It could offer you some protection."
"Yes. Please. I want that."
He spent the next hour asking more questions. About Travis. About the abuse. About the family. I answered everything as honestly as I could, though some parts were harder to talk about than others.
Finally, he set down his pen. "Alright, Mrs. Blackwood. I have everything I need. Give me about two hours to draft the separation papers, and you can come back to sign them this afternoon."
"Two hours? Really?"
He smiled. "I had a cancellation this afternoon, and your case is fairly straightforward since you're not requesting any assets. Yes, really."
Relief washed over me. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
"You're welcome. And Mrs. Blackwood? You're making the right choice. No one should have to endure what you've described."
I left the office feeling lighter than I had in years. Two hours. In two hours, I'd have legal papers establishing my separation from Travis Blackwood.
It wasn't a divorce yet. But it was a start.
I killed time by walking through the shopping district, window shopping and trying not to think too much. At exactly two hours, I returned to Mr. Harrison's office.
He had the papers ready. A thick stack of legal documents that represented my first real step toward freedom.
"Sign here, here, and here," he instructed, pointing to highlighted sections.
My hand shook slightly as I signed. Alicia Blackwood. Soon, I'd be able to drop that last name. Go back to my maiden name. Or choose something entirely new.
A fresh start.
"Here's your copy," Mr. Harrison said, sliding the papers into a folder. "Keep these safe. And Mrs. Blackwood? Be careful. Men like your husband don't usually let go easily."
"I will. Thank you."
I left the office clutching the folder like it was made of gold. Outside, Maurice was waiting by the car.
"Ready to return home, Mrs. Blackwood?"
Home. That mansion wasn't my home. It never had been.
"Actually, I'd like to stop somewhere for lunch first. Is that alright?"
"Of course, ma'am."
He drove me to a small café I'd noticed earlier. Nothing fancy. Just a quiet place where I could sit and process everything that had happened.
I ordered a sandwich and tea, then sat by the window watching people pass by. Normal people with normal lives. People who weren't trapped in loveless marriages or abusive families.
Soon, I'd be one of them. Free. Independent. Me.
The thought made me smile.
I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the city. Visited a bookstore. Sat in a park. Anything to delay going back to that mansion.
By the time Maurice drove me home, it was nearly ten at night. The house was dark. Everyone had gone to bed.
Perfect.
I clutched my bag tightly, the separation papers safely tucked inside, and headed for the stairs.
I was almost to my room when I collided with someone in the darkened hallway.
Strong hands caught my arms, steadying me. My bag fell, and papers scattered across the floor.
"Careful," Malachi's voice said in the darkness.
Of course. Of course it was him.
He bent down to help gather the papers, and my heart stopped when I saw what he was picking up.
The separation agreement. Right there in his hands. The words LEGAL SEPARATION in bold at the top.
He stood slowly, reading. Even in the dim light, I could see his expression change.
"Separation papers," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Give those back." I reached for them, but he held them just out of reach.
"You went to a lawyer today."
"That's none of your business."
"Everything about you is my business, Alicia." He kept reading. "You're leaving him."
"Yes. Is that a problem?"
He looked at me then, and something in his eyes made my breath catch. "No. Not a problem at all."
He handed the papers back, and I quickly shoved them into my bag.
"Congratulations," he said, and there was something almost teasing in his tone. "On your upcoming freedom."
"Thank you."
"You'll want to start packing."
I blinked. "What?"
"Packing. For the trip."
"What trip?"
"Check your email." He stepped past me. "Goodnight, Alicia. Sleep well."
He disappeared down the hallway, leaving me confused and slightly panicked.
I rushed to my room and opened my laptop. Sure enough, there was an email from Malachi sent to all executive staff.
Mandatory attendance. Dark City business conference. Three days.
No.
No, no, no.
I couldn't go to Dark City. I hadn't been back there since I was twelve. Since everything bad had happened. Since my mother died and my father became a monster.
I grabbed my phone and texted him.
Alicia: I can't attend the conference. I'm not feeling well.
His response came immediately.
Malachi: I just saw you in the hallway. You seemed perfectly fine.
Alicia: It just came on. I think I'm getting sick.
Malachi: Then you have two weeks to recover. The conference isn't until November 3rd. You'll be fine by then.
Alicia: Malachi, please. I really can't go to Dark City.
Malachi: Why not?
I stared at the screen. How could I explain? How could I tell him about the memories that place held? About watching my mother waste away in a hospital there? About my father's drinking getting worse after she died? About the night he came home drunk and gave me the scar I still carried?
Alicia: I just can't.
Malachi: Not good enough. You're coming. That's final.
I threw my phone onto the bed and pressed my hands to my face.
Dark City. I'd sworn I'd never go back there. Never set foot in that place again.
But I didn't have a choice. This was work. Mandatory. If I refused, I'd lose my position at the company. And I needed that job. Needed the independence it gave me.
I changed into my nightgown and crawled into bed, but sleep wouldn't come.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. The shabby apartment we'd lived in. My mother's pale face in that hospital bed. The smell of whiskey on my father's breath.
And the night he'd come home angry. So angry.
I'd been ten years old. I'd broken a glass by accident, and he'd grabbed me. Thrown me against the table. I'd hit the corner, and the pain had been blinding.
When I'd looked down, there was blood. So much blood.
The scar on my hip. Three inches long. A permanent reminder of that night.
My hand moved unconsciously to touch it through the fabric of my nightgown. I traced the raised line, the way I always did when I was anxious.
Tears leaked from my eyes. I didn't want to go back there. Didn't want to face those memories.
But I didn't have a choice.
Eventually, exhaustion won and I fell asleep, my hand still pressed against the scar.
The next two weeks passed in a blur. Work. Meetings. Avoiding Malachi as much as possible while knowing that in just days, I'd be trapped with him in Dark City.
The morning of the trip arrived too quickly.
The maids helped me pack. They chatted excitedly about how lucky I was to attend such a prestigious conference. How I'd get to see Dark City.
If only they knew.
I dressed in comfortable travel clothes and headed downstairs. Maurice was loading bags into a large bus parked outside. Other employees were already boarding, chatting and laughing.
Good. At least I'd be surrounded by people. Safety in numbers.
I started toward the bus, but Maurice stopped me.
"Mrs. Blackwood, you're not riding the bus."
"What? Why not?"
"Mr. Blackwood requested you travel with him. His car is out front."
My stomach dropped.
Of course. Of course he did.
I turned and saw Malachi's sleek black car waiting. He stood beside it, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Problem?" he called out.
I wanted to scream. Wanted to refuse. Wanted to run.
But I couldn't.
So I walked to his car, my heart heavy with dread, and got in.
Three days. I just had to survive three days.
Then I could come back and finalize my divorce and never think about Dark City again.
At least, that's what I told myself.