“We need to get some rest,” he said, squeezing my hand.

“Tomorrow we meet with John to go over the final divorce paperwork.”

“We are going to make sure she gets nothing from the business.”

“She doesn’t deserve a single dime,” I said.

We walked up the stairs to our apartment, the smell of damp concrete following us.

Inside, the living room was quiet and warm.

I set my coat on the back of the sofa.

My father walked into the kitchen to make some tea.

I heard the faucet run and the kettle clink against the stove.

For the first time in months, I felt like we could breathe.

The nightmare was finally coming to an end.

Suddenly, my father’s phone lit up on the kitchen counter.

The screen flashed with John Henderson’s name.

My father picked it up on the first ring.

“John,” he said.

“Daniel, we have a major problem,” Henderson’s voice came through the speaker, tight and rushed.

My father froze, his hand hovering over the kettle.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Claire’s lawyers just filed an emergency motion with the court,” Henderson said.