Operational Error (Ongoing)

Point of No Return

CAMILLE

The divorce didn't begin in a shout; it began in a spreadsheet. It began with the realization that Miles's warmth was financially and professionally unsustainable.

The true moment of decision came three weeks before the separation papers were drafted, following the Science Fair Disaster. I was preparing to argue the defense for the multi-million-dollar Midtown Project—a brief that required my absolute, undivided focus for a crucial midnight filing.

Miles had agreed to take full ownership of Evangeline's school commitments that week. Miles, being Miles, decided a simple solar system model wasn't enough. Instead, he helped Evangeline create a sprawling, battery-powered volcano display that required constant tinkering. The day before my filing, he insisted on assembling the final components on the dining room table, the only space large enough in the small house that we shared.

When I returned home, my temporary, pristine workspace was dominated by volcanic ash – baking soda and cocoa powder – wires, and tools. When I requested him to clear the area so I could set up my workstation and print the final brief, he delayed, saying, "Just ten more minutes, Millie, Evie is having a breakthrough!"

The disaster occurred an hour later. Distracted by their gleeful, bubbling creation, Miles accidentally knocked his gigantic, unmanaged coffee mug—the one with the chipped rim—directly onto the printer and a small stack of essential financial summaries. He immediately panicked and tried to clean it with a kitchen towel, smearing the ink and rendering two key exhibits illegible.

I didn't lose the case entirely, but I was forced to use contingency protocols that cost my firm nearly six figures in hurried, unscheduled filings. I stood there, staring at the ruined paperwork, feeling the sheer terror of having my professional security—my identity—threatened by an unmanaged coffee cup and a fit of paternal enthusiasm. The mistake wasn't legal; it was administrative. It was chaos.

I remember staring at the red financial summary, the figures mocking my lack of control. That was the moment I realized I had to choose: Miles's chaos or my necessary structure.

My parents' faces, of course, flashed immediately behind the numbers. Arthur, my father, was the financier of the conglomerate that co-owned Miles's restaurants. He viewed the marriage as a low-return asset the moment it began to impact my legal career. His voice, reserved and meticulous, echoed in my mind: Financial independence is your only true freedom, Camille. Emotion is just leverage others use against you.

And there was my mother, Caroline, whose elegant, hyper-critical gaze I was terrified of meeting. Her parents, my grandparents, founded the initial successful ventures and built the family's name in the hospitality industry. My mother carried on the tradition of impenetrable social structure.

Their marriage was not chaotic; it was a decades-long cold war of perfection, defined by emotional distance and the relentless pursuit of flawlessness. Divorce was unthinkable; a failure of optics.

Mother established the ultimate rule: success and perfection were the only currency for purchasing the outward show of their love and affection toward me.

My parents taught me that love without structure is just vulnerability waiting to be exploited. Miles wasn't my husband; he was the primary threat to the stability I had sworn to build for Evangeline and myself. If I allowed his anarchy to infect my perfect structure, I would fail. His disorder fueled his success – it was his creative spark, vital for him to to perfect his own craft, and vital for the profitability of the restaurants my father financed.

And if I failed, the thought surfaced, cold and sharp, I would be discarded. My failure at the firm, caused by the chaos Miles fostered, would give my father the specific, quantifiable data he needed to prove Miles was a high-risk liability. My mess would authorize my parents to dismantle Miles's entire professional life.