The last time I saw him was outside the courthouse.
He looked thinner. Older. Still expensive, but no longer so certain.
“Emma,” he said, stopping several feet away because the order required him to. “Was one slap worth all this?”
I looked at him calmly.
That was the difference between us.
He still believed the slap had been the beginning.
It had only been the proof.
“No,” I said. “Your whole life of lies was worth all this.”
He swallowed. “I did love you.”
“No,” I said. “You loved winning.”
Then I walked past him into the sunlight.
A year later, I moved my firm into a bigger office. On the wall behind my desk, I hung a framed photograph of my father smiling in an old brown jacket, standing beside the first car he had ever bought in cash. Beneath it, I kept no wedding picture, no ring, no trace of the Harrington name.
