Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2 — The Legal Fortress
The office of Maria Gonzalez, Attorney at Law, was located in a sleek, glass-fronted building in Brickell.
Maria was sharp, professional, and entirely devoid of the patronizing sympathy I had braced myself for.
She sat across a heavy mahogany desk, reviewing the police report, the medical photographs of my burn, and the deed to the apartment.
"You did everything perfectly," Maria said, looking up over her glasses. "You left immediately, you sought medical documentation, and you involved law enforcement."
"It didn't feel perfect," I admitted, my voice quiet. "It felt like I was destroying my own life."
Maria offered a tight, understanding smile. "You didn't destroy your life, Skylar. You detonated a bomb that was already ticking."
She tapped a manicured finger against the police report.
"Florida is an equitable distribution state," she explained. "But equitable does not always mean equal, especially when one party has a documented history of domestic violence and financial exploitation."
"The apartment is mine," I stated, my grip tightening on my purse. "I bought it three years before we met."
"And it will remain yours," Maria assured me. "Since his name is not on the deed and you never commingled the mortgage payments with joint funds, it is a premarital asset."
"What about Suzanne?" I asked. "The money I transferred to her account?"
Maria frowned, making a note on her legal pad. "We can attempt to categorize those transfers as dissipation of marital assets, especially if they were made under duress or without your consent. Do you have records?"
"Every bank statement for the last three years," I replied.
"Good. Now, regarding the criminal charges." Maria leaned forward, her expression turning serious. "The state has picked up the domestic battery charge. Because a weapon—the boiling coffee—was used and caused significant bodily harm, this could be elevated to a felony."
My stomach lurched. "Will I have to testify?"
"If it goes to trial, yes," Maria said. "But given the severity of the medical report and the fact that he was served immediately, his defense attorney will likely push for a plea deal."
"I don't want to see him," I whispered, the thought of facing Derek in a courtroom making my skin crawl.
"I will handle all communication," Maria promised. "He is barred from contacting you. If he breaches the protective order, he goes straight to jail."
I left her office an hour later, feeling lighter.
I wasn't just running away anymore. I was building a fortress.
I drove back to the Edgewater apartment.
The locksmith had already changed the deadbolts and the handle lock. He handed me the new, shiny keys with a sympathetic nod.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The apartment felt entirely different. The oppressive, heavy atmosphere that Derek always carried with him was gone.
It was just empty space.
I walked into the kitchen and stopped.
There, on the floor near the island, was a dark stain. The remnants of the coffee he had thrown.
My breathing hitched. The phantom sensation of burning heat flashed across my cheek.
I forced myself to walk over to the sink, grab a sponge and a bottle of heavy-duty cleaner, and drop to my knees.
I scrubbed the stain. I scrubbed until my knuckles ached and the sponge was completely black. I scrubbed until the floor was pristine, erasing the final physical evidence of his rage from my home.
When I stood up, my arms were shaking, but the stain was gone.
May you like
I opened the windows, letting the salty breeze from Biscayne Bay blow through the apartment, clearing out the stale air.
I was going to reclaim this space. One room at a time.
