I won. Barely. Judge Foley was very taken with Spencer's remarks and was heavily swayed to side with him, maintaining that the prenup was valid until I made a comment about multiple love affairs and illegitimate children, something that Sergei Luzhin took offence to.
Affronted by the allegation, Sergei muttered loud enough- in English- for us all to hear, "It was just the one illegitimate child, actually."
Judge Foley caught the statement and arching his eyebrow skywards, smirked. Moments later, while I was still midway through my pre-prepared speech, the judge held up his hand to stop me. "I think we've heard enough, Miss Fletcher. By his own earlier admission, Mr Luzhin fathered at least one chile outside of wedlock, breaking clause seventeen point eight of the prenuptial agreement," he said, looking down at his notes briefly. "'Neither party shall lay with another during the marriage, nor have children with anyone other than their spouse.' With this in mind, it would seem unfair of me to uphold the agreement for one party and not the other.
"I concede, Mr Cody, before you surely remind me, that clause seventeen point thirteen is also in contention, notably that the wife will be dutiful and honourable," the judge continued. "However, it is my sincerest belief that Mrs Luzhin was dutiful and honourable to her husband and the frequency of sexual relations decreased only after Mr Luzhin had broken his marital vows first. Therefore, precedence to disregard the agreement lays with your client, Mr Cody. This is my decision and it shall be thus. The court administrator will arrange another hearing within the next few days. I hope this allows both parties to come to an agreement within that time and that it can all be resolved in a timely and amicable manner. Good day to you all."
Still, a win was a win. The hard work, however, starts now. Within moments of leaving court, Carole emailed out that we would reconvene in a week, reminding both Spencer and me that it is the judge's sincerest hope that a resolution is found in the days between. Naturally, that's easier said than done. Thrilled with the perceived win today, Nadezhda is hellbent on getting as much of her husband's assets as possible; she and Anton are already compiling a list of what they were hoping to get.
Feeling slightly sick that my client was seemingly money-grabbing, I rush to catch Spencer before he leaves court, wanting to congratulate him on a well-fought argument. Honestly, it is hadn't been for Sergei, I don't think I would have got the upper hand.
"Spencer-" I start.
"Look, I'm really in a rush, Seraphina," Spencer says, cutting me off abruptly. Rubbing his temples, he spins to face me and grimaces. "I have that flight to catch. I'm headed out of town for a few days which, now that I lost today's battle, is rather unfortunate timing. I'll have all my works gadgets with me while I'm in Scotland so I'm sure we can Parley. I'll send you a dialogue later. Oh, and just in case there's any doubt, I do intend to win the war. See you soon, Seraphina."
And with that, Spencer strutted out the court, down the steps, and smoothly slid into the backseat of the town car that had been waiting for him. As the car pulls away from the curbside, I mentally kick myself that I'd allowed Spencer to dictate how our negotiations were about the go; the first rule of a negotiation is to be the one in control. You set the pace, the location, the agenda. The second you concede that to your rival, you lose.
This still runs through my mind when I return to the office an hour later. Nadezhda and Anton had accosted me as I'd tried to leave, giving me the first eight items of demands. I'm sure the marital home, all the jewels gifted during the union, and all the sportscars she'd littered off the tongue were all on the table, but I think Mr Luzhin's prized yacht would be a hard win, and does anyone need three helicopters?
I mean, I come from a family with money- more than the Luzhin's have- and no one in the Delaney family has that many helicopters. Vineyards, yes, but not whirlybirds.
When I reach my desk, I set my bag down on one of the armchairs and take out my work phone, hoping to see a dialogue from Spencer. When the notifications come up empty of requests but full of emails from the assistant pool, I throw it back into the bag and go on a hunt for some of my old university law books. I had one called Get Everything that I'd quite enjoyed reading back in the day, written, of course, by Daniel Whitaker. It was staple reading in our Negotiating Getting Everything class.
As I reach the last of the built-in cupboards, I admit to myself that the book isn't here. I must have taken it home for some bedtime reading at some point, such is the level of excitement in my life. Maybe Léa was right: my life is tragically centred around my job. Sighing, I give up the search for Get Everything and force myself to get started on another case, a bitter divorce with custody arrangements at the heart of the stalled settlement. Only, it wasn't custody of the children that was the cause of the acrimony. No, it was custody of the eighteen-year-old family cat that was the crux of the resentment.
Once that's out of the way, I move on to the next case, and the next, and the next. In the blink of an eye, ten am had become six pm and I'm as due to leave for the night. Powering down the laptop, I leave it on my desk, setting my notebook on top with the pages opened on my to-do list for the morning. I scan the contents of the page and sigh. It would be a lot to be getting on with, and with the prospect of a Parley call in the middle of my schedule, I'm likely going to be working into the night. But that was tomorrow's problem, not today's.
The offices are empty. The purge happens just after five-thirty most nights, with only the night owls staying past then. I count seven staff, mostly juniors, as I walk to the lift, each busying themselves with stacks of paper. As I wait, I watch as a young woman pushes the heel of her palm into the socket of her eye. I feel sorry for her; I know what it's like to be young, enthusiastic and want to make an impression. You kill yourself working every hour God gives you but it never seems to be enough.
A ping of the lift announces its arrival. Pressing the ground floor button, I allow myself to slump against the back panel, closing my eyes for a few seconds. One of the most difficult parts of my job is the ability to switch off. For some, that was easy, but for me, I need to mentally decompress between the tenth floor and the ground floor, knowing that the second my heels hit the lobby floor, I'm no longer in work mode.
By the time I finally get back to the flat, I'm thinking more about my stomach than the fact that Spencer's dialogue for Parley hasn't come through. The kitchen light is on and the faint sound of music echoes from the living room. The dulcet tones of danish heavy metal indicate to me who is here.
"Léa?" I call out to my cousin- best friend- flatmate. She shouts back at me from upstairs, telling me that we have guests. As if she needs to tell me. Heavy metal music. It gives it all away. I enter the kitchen and see my brother watching the bolognese sauce on the stove intensely. I wave in his direction but he doesn't see me. With a sigh, I set my bag on the countertop and move to Joss's side. "Did Léa tell you to keep an eye on dinner again?"
Joss nods. "She did."
"You know that she doesn't mean to literally-"
"I know," Joss responds abruptly. His eyes flit to the side but he doesn't move his head. Instinctively, I flinch. I hate the way my brother gives his signature sideways glance- it seems unnatural that he can see that far into his periphery without moving the rest of his body. Truly, it's creepy. As he blinks, he moves his gaze back to the saucepan, inching closer to it. "I think she's put too much garlic in here. It's enough to kill all the vampires in this world, the next, and the next after that, ad Infinitum. Maybe I can throw it out and start again. Otherwise, I'll have to pretend to like this when it's served to me, and I cannot do that. Martha says-"
I snort. "Never start a sentence with 'Martha says,'" I advise. "Martha says a lot of things, most of which is terribly insulting, and nothing good ever comes from it."
"Nothing good ever comes from what?" Léa asks as she graces me with her presence. Dressed overly formal for a dinner at home, her black oversized Chanel shirt drowns her petite figure. Her beady eyes move from Joss to me, and back again. "Joseph, nothing good ever comes from..."
When prompted by Léa's voice trailing off, Joss responds with, "Martha's mouth. Or your cooking, if I'm being honest."
Our cousin throws a deadpan glare at Joss, not that he notices. I stifle a giggle as I tell them both that I'm headed to my room to change and find a book. There's nothing better at the end of the day than kicking off your heels, taking off your bra, and putting on the comfiest lounge pants and jumper you own. Estimating that Léa's dinner will take another fifteen minutes before she's happy to serve, I get on my hands and knees to dig out Get Everything from under the bed. Normal people like Léa keep their vibrators and box of toys under their bed. Me? Lost books.
I flip to the Plan to Win chapter and toy with earmarking the page, but that goes against every grain within me. Instead, I reach for the nearest object on the nightstand and throw that in as a bookmark, only taking note of the fact that it's the Doré charm Aunt Emma gifted me on my last birthday. Well, I have plenty of them, I think as I shut the front cover.
Downstairs, I hear the start of a new Léa-Joss argument. Being relatively close in age, the three of us are very close, but Léa and Joss butt heads more than anyone I know. She love to wind him up over the smallest thing and he'll bite, and volley a sarcastic comment back at her, making her irate. It then escalates at the speed of light and the next thing you know, there's raised voices, profanity and weirdly, a lot of growling at one another. The only one who finds it all entertaining is Martha's husband, Sam. He says that it reminds him of when Aunt Sophie and my father argue.
"Guys, knock it off," I insists as I rush into the kitchen, almost falling flat on my face due to the gripless socks on my feet. Thankfully, the countertop manages to stop me in my tracks, although my abdomen will be bruised later on.
Léa smirks at my predicament, while Joss tells me that I need to be more careful. I take a deep breath to stop myself from snapping at my brother, thanking whatever Gods may be for the fact that my work phone dings and providing a distration. A dialogue request from Spencer. I add the date and time to my calendar and set the phone aside, only to be met with an icy, irritable snarl from Léa.
"Problem?" I sarcastically ask.
"Only that whenever your work phone pings, you jump on it like a younger Henry Cavill," she mocks. "But when I text you, you ignore me all freaking day. Like, hello! It's just your favourite person of all time trying to tell you about how amazing and awesome her day was. But no, you do you."
My eyebrows knead together. "Léa, you haven't text me at all. My personal phone has been quiet all day."
"Incorrect, I sent you-" she grabs her phone, goes to her messages and starts to count. "-thirteen texts today. No response."
Guffawing, I delve into the bag to find my personal phone. When I locate the handset, I tap the screen to see no messages. I wave it in front of Léa's face as proof that I haven't received any of her messages. Joss moves closer, instantly interested in what's happening between myself and our cousin. Suddenly, his head tilts to the side and he inches closer to the screen. His eyes then dart upwards and focuses don't he gap between my eyes.
"That's not your phone," he comments. I turn the phone to face me. Well, it's the right make and model, no cover, the background wallpaper is a plain black screen and all the icons at the top of the screen are the same. There's no screen lock enabled and most of the initial apps are mine. Except for The Word Degree app, although that might have been one that I downloaded at some point in time. Joss points to a corner of the screen. "Your phone has a slight scratch here from when Owen dropped it in the dishwasher and it hit the big knife. I wasn't supposed to tell you that but I felt like it's a fundamental detail to prove to you that this is not your phone."
Léa gaped at him, then shook her head and turned to me. "I'll just ring your phone and we'll find out," she declares.
Within seconds, she has her handset pressed up against her ear. The phone in my hand didn't ring. After five seconds, a click noise came from the other end of the line. A masculine voice come from the other side. Freaking out, Léa throws the handset at me and prompts me to speak to the person on the line. Intrigued, I do as she says.
"Um, yes, hello," I begin, instantly feeling like a complete idiot. "My name is Sera, and I believe that you have my phone."
A beat of silence passes. "Sera?" The voice- familiar- repeats. Another fleeting silence goes by. "Seraphina Fletcher?"
"Yes," I confirm. "And who might this be?"
"Why don't you guess," he challenges me.
With just four words, I'm certain I know exactly who it is. "Spencer, how do you have my phone?"