The call came while I was folding laundry, as if he’d chosen the most ordinary moment to drop a bomb.
“Nora, I want a divorce.” My husband, Caleb Vaughn, sounded eerily composed—like he’d practiced the line beforehand.
I froze. “What? Caleb, what are you talking about?”
“I’ve already set things in motion,” he said evenly.
“Let’s not drag this out. From now on, you speak to my attorney.”
My stomach sank. “Your attorney?
Caleb, we’ve been married eight years.”
He sighed, impatient. “Exactly. That’s why this needs to stay clean.
No drama. You’ll get an email.”
The call ended.
Two minutes later, a message arrived from a downtown firm—Hartwell & Pierce, Family Law Division. No greeting.
No explanation. Just a scheduled meeting and a blunt line: All communication must go through counsel.
He was treating me like an adversary.
I didn’t cry—not yet. I did what you do when the ground shifts beneath you: I gathered information.
Printed the email. Retrieved our marriage certificate. Checked our joint accounts.
Nothing appeared touched… but the certainty in his voice suggested he thought he was already steps ahead.
The next morning, I walked into Hartwell & Pierce in my work blazer, wedding ring still on my finger. The office was sleek and sterile—glass walls, polished wood, intimidating by design.
A receptionist guided me into a conference room. A man in his forties entered with a file.
His nameplate read Elliot Hartwell—senior partner.
He didn’t offer pleasantries. “Let’s keep this efficient. State your name for the record.”
“Nora Vaughn,” I said.
“And yes—I’m the wife.”
The shift in him was immediate.
His grip tightened on his pen. He looked down at the file, then back at me. “Just to confirm… you are legally married to Caleb Vaughn?”
“Yes,” I said carefully.
“Why does that sound like news to you?”
Color drained from his face. He reopened the folder as though it might explode.
“I need a moment,” he muttered.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
He didn’t respond. He stood abruptly and stepped out, leaving the door ajar.
Through the glass wall, I watched him lean toward the receptionist, whisper urgently, and gesture at my name on the sign-in sheet.
Her expression changed instantly—wide-eyed, startled.
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