Updated Feb 18, 2026 • ~8 min read
The courthouse smells like old paper and broken promises.
Harlow’s hands shake as she signs the divorce petition. Her signature looks nothing like it did on their marriage certificate three years ago—back when she believed Miles when he said “forever.”
Back when she was stupid.
“You’re sure about this?” Mira asks. Her lawyer looks at her with those assessing brown eyes that have seen a thousand divorces and probably stopped believing in love around divorce number fifty.
“I found him in our bed. With his assistant. For the third time.” Harlow’s voice is steady even though her insides are screaming. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Three affairs. Three women. And Miles had the audacity to act surprised when she packed her bags.
“You’re overreacting,” he’d said, like she’d caught him leaving dishes in the sink instead of screwing someone else in their fifteen-hundred-dollar sheets. “It didn’t mean anything.”
That was two weeks ago.
Today, she’s filing for divorce.
“Okay.” Mira takes the signed petition. “I’ll submit this today. Miles will be served within forty-eight hours. Then things are going to get ugly.”
“Uglier than finding your husband cheating? Again?” Harlow tries to laugh. It comes out broken.
“Much uglier. Miles Hartford is a tech startup founder with money and ego. He’s not going to let you walk away with half his empire without a fight.” Mira’s expression is grim. “Be prepared. Men like him don’t lose gracefully.”
Harlow already knows this. She’s seen Miles lose a contract bid, a pitch meeting, a game of tennis. He’s a sore loser on a good day.
A divorce? This is going to be war.
“I just want what’s fair,” Harlow says. “Half the assets we built together. That’s it.”
Mira looks at her like she’s adorable and naive. “Fair doesn’t exist in divorce court. Only what you can prove and what the lawyers can destroy.”
Great. Fantastic. Exactly what Harlow needs to hear while her entire life implodes.
She leaves the courthouse feeling hollow. Empty. Like someone scooped out her insides and left nothing but grief and rage rattling around her ribcage.
Her phone buzzes. Text from Miles:
You’ll regret this. I’ll make sure you get nothing.
Classy. Real classy.
Harlow blocks his number. She should’ve done it two weeks ago.
Forty-eight hours later, Mira calls.
“He hired Roman Castellanos.”
Harlow is in her temporary apartment—a depressing studio with water-stained ceiling tiles and a radiator that clangs at 3 AM. She’s eating cereal straight from the box because she hasn’t bought bowls yet. Or furniture. Or the will to live.
“Who?” she asks.
“Roman Castellanos. Best divorce attorney in the city. Also the most ruthless.” Mira’s voice is tight. “He destroys people for a living. Harlow, you need to be prepared. This man will dig into every corner of your life. Your finances. Your relationships. Your medical records if he thinks it’ll help Miles.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong. Miles cheated. Multiple times. I have proof—”
“Doesn’t matter. Roman will find a way to make you look bad. That’s what he does. That’s why he wins.” Mira sighs. “I’ve gone up against him three times. Lost all three. He’s that good.”
Harlow’s stomach drops. “So what do we do?”
“We fight. We document everything. We don’t give him ammunition.” A pause. “And Harlow? Whatever you do, don’t talk to him. Don’t engage. Don’t let him get in your head.”
“I’m not planning to have a conversation with my ex’s lawyer.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
They hang up.
Harlow stares at her phone. Googles “Roman Castellanos attorney.”
The results are immediate and terrifying.
“Castellanos Wins Record-Breaking Settlement in Hartford Divorce Case”
“Seattle’s Most Ruthless Divorce Lawyer: Inside Roman Castellanos’s Winning Strategy”
“Castellanos Law Firm: When You Need To Destroy Your Ex”
Great. Miles hired a legal assassin.
Harlow scrolls through images. Most are professional headshots—suits, courthouse steps, confident smiles that probably cost his clients two thousand dollars an hour.
Then she sees a candid photo from some legal conference.
And her brain short-circuits.
Roman Castellanos is gorgeous.
Not handsome. Not attractive. Gorgeous. Dark hair that looks like he ran his fingers through it one too many times. Brown eyes that probably see straight through bullshit. Sharp jawline. That kind of confident posture that comes from winning too many cases.
He’s wearing a suit that definitely costs more than Harlow’s car.
And he’s smiling at something off-camera—a real smile, not the polished professional one—and it does something unfortunate to her traitorous stomach.
No, Harlow tells herself firmly. Absolutely not. This man is going to destroy you in court. You are NOT allowed to think he’s hot.
Her hormones don’t listen.
She slams her laptop shut.
This is fine. She’ll just… never see him in person. They’ll communicate through lawyers. She won’t have to sit across from those dark eyes and that stupidly attractive face while he demolishes her character.
Right?
Wrong.
Two weeks later, Harlow has her first mediation session.
Mira warned her. Told her Roman would be there. Told her to stay calm, stay quiet, let Mira handle everything.
Harlow prepared. She wore her most professional dress—black, structured, the kind that says I’m a serious businesswoman, not a gold-digger. She practiced her neutral face in the mirror. She gave herself a pep talk about not letting them see her cry.
She did not prepare for Roman Castellanos in person.
He’s standing by the conference room window when she walks in. Talking on his phone. His back is to her and even that is unfairly attractive—broad shoulders, perfect posture, one hand in his pocket like he owns the room.
Then he turns.
And Harlow forgets how to breathe.
The photos didn’t do him justice. They didn’t capture the intensity in his dark eyes or the way he commands space just by existing. They didn’t show the slight scruff on his jaw—like he was too busy winning cases to shave—or the way his dress shirt fits perfectly across his chest.
He looks at her.
Their eyes meet.
And Harlow feels it—that awful, terrible, completely inappropriate zing of attraction that shoots straight through her nervous system and lands somewhere very inconvenient.
No. No no no no no.
This man is her enemy. He works for Miles. He’s going to try to destroy her in court and leave her with nothing.
She cannot—absolutely cannot—be attracted to him.
Roman’s expression doesn’t change. Professional. Neutral. He ends his phone call with a curt “I’ll call you back” and extends his hand.
“Ms. Hartford. Roman Castellanos.”
His voice is deep. Calm. The kind of voice that probably sounds great in a courtroom when he’s eviscerating someone’s character.
Harlow shakes his hand because what else is she supposed to do?
His grip is firm. Warm. His fingers are long and she has the sudden, insane thought about what those hands would feel like—
Stop it, her brain screams. STOP IT RIGHT NOW.
“Mr. Castellanos,” she manages. Her voice sounds normal. Thank god.
“Please, call me Roman.” He releases her hand. Steps back. “I know this is difficult. Divorce always is. But I want you to know I’m here to facilitate a fair resolution for all parties.”
He sounds so reasonable. So professional.
Harlow wants to believe him.
But Mira’s warning echoes in her head: He destroys people. That’s what he does.
“Fair would be acknowledging my husband cheated on me repeatedly and I deserve half of what we built together,” Harlow says. Her voice is steady. Good.
Something flickers in Roman’s eyes. Gone too fast to read.
“My client’s personal choices aren’t relevant to asset division,” he says smoothly. “We’re here to discuss financial matters, not marital grievances.”
Translation: I don’t care that your husband destroyed you emotionally. Give him the money.
Harlow’s jaw tightens.
Miles walks in before she can respond. He looks smug. Satisfied. Like he’s already won.
“Harlow,” he says. Not sorry. Not can we talk. Just her name, flat and dismissive.
She doesn’t answer.
The mediation begins.
And Roman Castellanos proceeds to systematically dismantle her life.
He questions her career contributions. Implies her freelance graphic design business is “unstable” and “not comparable” to Miles’s tech startup success. Suggests she’s been “financially dependent” throughout the marriage.
Every word is professional. Polite. Devastatingly effective.
Harlow sits there, hands clenched in her lap, while this gorgeous, terrible man destroys her credibility piece by piece.
Mira fights back. Provides evidence of Harlow’s income, her contributions to household finances, the emotional and logistical support she gave Miles while he built his company.
But Roman counters everything. He’s prepared. He’s ruthless.
He’s very, very good at his job.
By the end of the session, Harlow feels like she’s been flayed alive.
Miles leaves first, clapping Roman on the shoulder like they’re buddies. Celebrating her humiliation.
Roman lingers. Packing his briefcase. Not looking at her.
Harlow stands. She’s not going to run. Not going to cry. Not going to let them see how much this hurt.
She walks toward the door.
Passes Roman.
And just for a second—one brief, impossible second—their eyes meet again.
There’s something in his expression. Something that looks almost like regret.
Then it’s gone.
“See you at the next session,” he says. Professional. Detached.
Harlow doesn’t answer.
She leaves the courthouse shaking. Not with fear.
With rage.
And with the terrible, awful, completely insane knowledge that she’s attracted to the man who’s going to destroy her.
This is going to be a disaster.
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