Updated Feb 18, 2026 • ~10 min read
Three weeks later, Harlow sits in the same conference room.
Different day. Same nightmare.
Except this time, Roman isn’t holding back.
“Let’s discuss your employment history,” he says. His voice is calm. Professional. The kind of tone that makes you think he’s asking about the weather instead of systematically destroying your credibility.
He slides a document across the table. “According to tax records, your income has been… inconsistent. Over the past five years.”
Harlow looks at the numbers. Her stomach sinks.
Because he’s right.
Freelance graphic design means some months she’s making eight thousand dollars. Other months, barely two. That’s the nature of contract work. Feast or famine.
She’s never hidden this. But seeing it laid out like this—in black and white, presented by a man who makes her client look unstable—makes her feel small.
“Freelance work is variable,” Mira says smoothly. “But Ms. Hartford has maintained consistent employment—”
“Consistent?” Roman’s eyebrow raises. Just slightly. “She had a three-month gap in 2022. No reported income.”
“I was taking care of my mother,” Harlow snaps. “She had cancer. Stage four. I was her caregiver.”
The words come out sharper than she intended. Defensive.
Roman doesn’t blink. “I’m sorry for your loss. But the financial reality remains: during your marriage to Mr. Hartford, your income was negligible compared to his. You were financially dependent on him.”
“I wasn’t dependent—”
“You lived in a home he purchased. Drove a car registered in his name. Used credit cards he paid for.” Roman’s voice never changes. Still calm. Still professional. “The evidence suggests a pattern of financial reliance.”
Harlow’s hands clench under the table.
Because again, he’s not wrong. Not technically.
Miles made more money. His startup took off. They moved into a bigger house, bought nicer things, upgraded their lifestyle.
And yes, most of it was in his name.
Because Harlow trusted him. Because they were married. Because she thought our money meant exactly that—ours.
Stupid. She was so stupid.
“My client contributed to the household,” Mira says. “Emotional support, domestic labor, networking—”
“Networking?” Roman’s tone is polite. Mildly curious. “Could you elaborate?”
Mira hesitates.
And Harlow realizes the trap a second too late.
“Ms. Hartford attended social events with Mr. Hartford,” Mira says carefully. “Client dinners. Investor meetings. She was a supportive partner—”
“So she was arm candy.”
The words land like a slap.
Harlow’s head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
Roman looks at her. His expression is neutral. “You attended events as Mr. Hartford’s wife. Socialized with potential investors. Made him look stable and successful.” A beat. “That’s not a professional contribution. That’s being a trophy wife.”
The room goes silent.
Harlow can hear her heartbeat in her ears. Feel heat crawling up her neck.
“That’s inappropriate,” Mira says sharply.
“It’s accurate.” Roman doesn’t look away from Harlow. “I’m simply establishing that Ms. Hartford’s contributions to the marriage were primarily domestic and social. Not financial. The asset division should reflect that.”
“I built his website,” Harlow says. Her voice shakes. “When he was starting the company. I designed his logo. His pitch decks. His entire brand identity. For free. Because I believed in him. In us.“
“And did you invoice him for those services?” Roman asks.
“Of course not. We were married—”
“So you provided free labor. Which, while generous, doesn’t entitle you to half his company’s value.”
Harlow wants to flip the table. Wants to scream. Wants to ask how he can sit there with that calm, handsome face and systematically erase three years of her life like she was nothing.
But she doesn’t.
Because that’s what he wants. To make her lose control. To prove she’s emotional. Irrational. Not credible.
So she sits there. Silent. Shaking.
While Roman continues.
He questions her spending habits. Implies she’s financially irresponsible. Points out luxury purchases—handbags, spa days, a weekend trip to Portland.
Never mind that Miles encouraged those purchases. Told her to treat herself. Said they could afford it.
Roman makes it sound like she was hemorrhaging money. Being reckless. Taking advantage.
“I think we’re done here,” Mira finally says. Her voice is tight with anger. “This isn’t mediation. This is character assassination.”
“I’m simply presenting the facts.” Roman closes his folder. “If Ms. Hartford finds those facts unflattering, perhaps she should reconsider her demands.”
He stands.
Miles stands too. Smirking.
And Harlow realizes with sick certainty that this was planned. Rehearsed. A coordinated attack designed to humiliate her into settling.
“Next session is in two weeks,” Roman says. “I suggest we come prepared to discuss a realistic settlement. One that reflects Ms. Hartford’s actual contributions to the marriage.”
Translation: Take what we’re offering or this gets worse.
He leaves.
Miles lingers just long enough to whisper, “Told you you’d regret this.”
Then he’s gone too.
Harlow sits in the empty conference room. Mira is packing files, muttering about motions and discovery and aggressive tactics.
But Harlow can’t focus.
Because Roman just spent an hour making her feel worthless. Small. Stupid for ever believing her marriage meant something.
And the worst part?
The absolute worst part?
She’s still attracted to him.
Despite the cruelty. Despite the cold professionalism. Despite everything.
She watched him dismantle her life with those dark eyes and that perfect suit and some traitorous part of her brain thought: God, he’s good at this. He’s so good at this. And he’s so—
No.
Harlow stands abruptly. “I need air.”
“Harlow—”
“I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
She’s not fine.
She leaves the conference room. Takes the stairs instead of the elevator because she needs to move. To breathe. To not scream in public.
By the time she reaches the courthouse bathroom, her eyes are burning.
She locks herself in a stall. Sits on the closed toilet lid. And cries.
Not delicate tears. Ugly crying. The kind that makes your whole body shake. The kind that comes from having your worth reduced to dollar signs and dismissed by a man who doesn’t even know you.
She hates Miles for cheating. For hiring Roman. For turning their divorce into warfare.
She hates Roman for being so good at his job that he makes her feel like nothing.
And she hates herself for being attracted to him anyway.
The bathroom door opens.
Harlow freezes. Tries to muffle her breathing.
Footsteps. Heels. Another woman.
“Are you okay in there?” a voice asks. Gentle. Concerned.
“I’m fine,” Harlow lies.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Bad day.”
“Divorce?”
Harlow almost laughs. “That obvious?”
“This is a courthouse. Half the women crying in this bathroom are going through divorces.” A pause. “The other half are lawyers who lost cases. We all cry here. It’s practically a support group.”
Harlow opens the stall door.
A woman in her forties stands by the sink. Professional blazer. Kind eyes. She hands Harlow a tissue without comment.
“Thank you,” Harlow manages.
“Whoever your lawyer is, they’re either amazing or terrible. You’re crying in a courthouse bathroom instead of at home. That’s either because you just won something huge or lost something worse.”
“Lost.” Harlow wipes her eyes. Her mascara is probably everywhere. “Definitely lost.”
The woman nods. “Yeah. Divorce is hell. But you survive it. Trust me.”
She leaves.
And Harlow stands there, staring at her reflection.
She looks destroyed. Mascara streaked. Eyes red. Face blotchy from crying.
This is what Roman Castellanos did to her.
This is what he’s capable of.
And she needs to remember that. Needs to burn this image into her brain so the next time she sees him and feels that stupid, traitorous attraction, she remembers what he is.
A weapon. Aimed at her. Designed to destroy.
She cleans up her face. Fixes her makeup as best she can. Takes a deep breath.
Then she leaves the bathroom.
And walks directly into Roman.
He’s standing in the hallway. Looking at his phone. Distracted.
He glances up.
Sees her.
And something crosses his face. Too fast to read. But it looks almost like… guilt?
No. Impossible. He’s a divorce lawyer. He probably doesn’t feel guilt.
“Ms. Hartford,” he says. His voice is different. Quieter. Less professional. “I—”
Harlow walks past him.
She’s not doing this. Not having whatever conversation he thinks they’re having.
But she hears him behind her.
“Wait.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Harlow.”
Her first name. Not Ms. Hartford. Her actual name.
She stops. Against her better judgment.
Turns.
Roman is holding a small pack of tissues. The kind you get from courthouse vending machines.
“You left these,” he says.
Except she didn’t. She used the ones the woman gave her.
He’s lying.
He followed her. Saw her crying. And now he’s—what? Trying to apologize? Offer comfort?
“I don’t need your pity,” Harlow says.
“It’s not pity.”
“Then what is it?”
Roman doesn’t answer.
They stand in the courthouse hallway. People walking past them. Court clerks and lawyers and families and defendants.
And Roman Castellanos looks at her with those dark eyes and she swears she sees something there. Something real. Something that looks like regret.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “In the conference room. I went too far.”
“You were doing your job.”
“My job is to represent my client. Not to—” He stops. Looks away. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Harlow doesn’t know what to say.
Because he’s right. She didn’t deserve it.
But he did it anyway.
“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” she asks. “You destroy me in mediation and then apologize in the hallway?”
“No. It’s supposed to—” Roman runs a hand through his hair. Frustrated. “I don’t know. I just… I saw you and I—”
“You what? Felt bad?” Harlow laughs. Bitter. “Don’t. Save your guilt for someone who wants it. I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. I need you to stop destroying my life.”
She turns to leave.
“I can’t,” Roman says.
Harlow stops.
“I can’t stop,” he continues. “I’m representing Miles. I have to fight for him. That’s how this works.”
“Then why apologize?”
“Because you’re right. You didn’t deserve what I said. And I need you to know that.” He looks at her. Really looks at her. “In mediation, I’m a lawyer. Out here, I’m… someone who knows he crossed a line.”
Harlow’s heart is doing something stupid in her chest.
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t try to be human with me. It’s easier if you’re just the enemy.”
“Is that what I am?”
“Yes. You work for my ex-husband. You’re trying to leave me with nothing. That makes you the enemy.”
Roman nods slowly. “You’re right. It does.”
“So stop pretending you care.”
“I’m not pretending.”
The words hang between them.
And Harlow doesn’t know what to do with that. Doesn’t know how to process the fact that the man who just humiliated her in a conference room is now standing in a courthouse hallway looking at her like she matters.
“I have to go,” she says.
Roman steps back. Giving her space.
Harlow walks away.
And she doesn’t look back.
But she feels him watching her.
All the way to the exit.
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