I Divorced The Lawyer Who Killed My Father

Three years after my asshole ex, Preston Fitzgerald, got my dad killed, he came back—just in time to catch me sobbing at JFK, and somehow decided I was crying because I still loved him. Yeah, right? He freezes when he sees me. "Nina… do you still hate me? For not taking your dad's case? He lost, then the heart attack hit, and—" I shake my head. Back then, I got on my knees and begged him to defend my father. He said yes. However, the night before trial, his precious little "junior," Sophie, whispered in his ear. "Pres, you have to stick to your principles." He ghosted me. Left me one text. "Nina, I can't represent family. That's my line." Never mind he'd won a hundred cases just like it. Never mind he could've walked in and closed it in his sleep. He just watched me scramble for a lawyer I couldn't find. Watched my father lose. Dad's last words to me, from the hospital bed: "Don't blame Preston, honey. He's just doing his job." I respected his line. I understood his job. I just stopped loving him for it. … Preston's eyes go red. I feel nothing. Because I cried harder at my father's funeral. I remember it too clearly. Right after the service, I drove straight to Preston's firm to hand in my resignation papers. I pushed open his office door. Not one word of comfort. Just a cold stare. "You lost because the evidence was weak. Your dad was already sick. Don't drag your feelings into the workplace." "If I'd broken my rule for your father, what would the industry say about me?" "You should be more like Sophie. Reasonable. Respectful of the law." I stared at the man I'd loved for five years. I've never felt so cold in my life. I bit down on the scream in my throat. I didn't argue. Because the dead can't outshout the living. But as I turned to leave for the copy room, I saw it. A fresh case file, spread open on his desk. The client name on the defense agreement: Sophie Sutton. I stared at that paper. And whatever thread of sanity I had left — it snapped. I grabbed the file. Walked right up to him. "I thought you didn't defend people close to you? So what the hell is this?" His brow shot up. He snatched the file back, all self-righteous. "That's different!" "Sophie was raised by a single mom. You have no idea how hard she works out here alone. Cut her some slack." My eyes burned. "She's had it rough? What about me?" "My dad is dead, Preston. Dead. And you couldn't bend an inch. But you'll bend for her?" He shot up from his chair, looking at me like I'd disappointed him. "Nina, what the hell is wrong with you? Picking fights with a young girl. Have some shame." Then, softer — but every word dripping with favoritism: "Sophie's been crying every day over this case. She's scared to leave her apartment." "I'm her senior. Am I supposed to just let her get destroyed?" "Don't be petty. Be the bigger person." I looked at his self-righteous face. My stomach turned inside out. What a joke. This was his precious "principle." He could watch his fiancée of five years lose everything and call it integrity. But he'd fold like a cheap suit for Sophie's crocodile tears. His "line" was never a line. It was just a leash — for me. I sucked in a breath. Forced the tears back down. "Okay. I get it." I didn't scream. Didn't throw anything. My father wasn't even in the ground yet — I wouldn't let him rest uneasy. I walked out. Closed the door softly behind me. In the bathroom, I pulled out my phone. Scrolled to a name. Ryan Lawson. My senior from law school. Now senior partner at a global firm, and the youngest law professor in the country. "Ryan, that visiting scholar spot you mentioned in New York — can I still apply?" His reply came in two seconds flat. "Yes. Send me your file. I'll handle it." I looked at myself in the mirror. Red eyes. Steel in them. I typed one more line. "Thank you. Book me a flight to New York. One week out." Seven days. That was my countdown out of this city.