MILLY – Monday Morning, 4:55 AM
The penthouse was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of the building settling into its bones. Outside, the city hadn't woken yet. Inside, Milly hadn't slept.
She sat on the edge of her kitchen stool, legs bare, robe loosely knotted at the waist. A half-finished cup of tea steamed beside her elbow, untouched. The fireplace flickered across the room, its flames doing little to warm her skin. Or her resolve.
The papers lay open on the marble counter. Crisp. Heavy. Final.
Divorce Decree – Calvin Ezra Williams v. Millicent Martinez-Williams.
She had read the words so many times they'd blurred into static. Legal language, numbers, stipulations. It should have felt like a victory—the settlement wasn't small, and she had clawed her way to the negotiating table through blood, sweat, and perfectly choreographed media warfare.
But this didn't feel like triumph.
It felt like defeat.
