Chapter 18 - THE DIVORCE DECREE
My divorce from Victor took nearly two years.
Criminal guilt did not automatically resolve every financial issue.
We had:
A Manhattan apartment.
The Connecticut estate.
Investment accounts.
Art.
Vehicles.
Family-office interests.
Some clean.
Some tied to disputed Blackwood transactions.
Receivers and divorce lawyers traced everything.
I wanted the Connecticut house at first.
Then visited it.
The dining room where Victor monitored my medication.
The bathroom where I hid emergency tablets.
The bedroom where I once believed being watched was concern.
I changed my mind.
The house sold.
Victor’s legitimate marital share remained subject to restitution and legal obligations.
My share went into diversified assets separate from Blackwood stock.
The Manhattan apartment belonged mostly to Victor’s premarital structure.
I waived a fight over furnishings I did not want.
My mother’s objects came with me.
The divorce decree included permanent no-contact protections independent of incarceration.
No spousal support either direction.
No confidentiality clause preventing truthful discussion of criminal facts.
No right for Victor to use my medical history commercially.
We had no children.
That simplified some grief and created another.
I had once wanted them.
Not with him anymore.
My twenty-nine-year-old self moved into a bright apartment overlooking the river.
No family security team.
Independent building management.
My own physician.
My own pharmacy.
Two-factor authentication on everything.
At first I checked medication packaging five times.
Dr. Morris called it understandable hypervigilance.
We created a routine.
Verify once.
Store securely.
Do not let safety become compulsive captivity.
I entered therapy.
Not because Victor had been right about anxiety.
Because trauma creates anxiety without turning prior abuse into imagination.
That distinction mattered.
Adrian and I did not date.
For eighteen months.
He had transferred my care.
Our legal depositions ended.
Medical-board review closed.
Then we met accidentally at a museum fundraiser unrelated to Blackwood.
No valet uniform.
No scrubs.
A navy suit.
He smiled.
“You look less blue.”
“That is a terrible opening line.”
“I panicked.”
“You once kicked a man during a cardiac emergency.”
“Different skill set.”
We had coffee.
Then dinner weeks later.
Slow.
Painfully ethical.
Rachel joked that I required a conflict-of-interest memo before kissing him.
Almost.
I asked Adrian:
“Did you want to rescue me?”
He answered:
“At the gala? Yes.”
“That scares me.”
“Me too.”
“Why?”
“Because rescue can become control if the person starts thinking being useful gives them rights.”
I stared.
“You rehearsed that.”
“Therapy.”
Good.
We kissed later.
No promise.
No medical advice.
May you like
When my heart fluttered from nerves, I laughed.
For the first time, not every rapid beat meant someone had done something to me.
