Page 1 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

CHARLOTTE - SIX MONTHS AGO

I am brave. I am strong. I am almost free.

It’s the mantra I’ve been repeating since walking into this courthouse—I knew he was here, behind a closed door, waiting for another chance to break me down.

“It’s time,” my attorney, Gail, says quietly, guiding me into a small meeting room just off the courtroom hall.

We could’ve met at either law office, but she insisted on neutral ground.

A silent peace offering to the monster now sitting across from me, lips curled into a smirk.

Terrance and I have been married for seven years—seven years of hell.

The wooden table feels too close, like it’s closing in on me.

His stare pins me in place. The same one that’s haunted my nightmares.

I try not to look, but my eyes drift back, drawn to him despite everything.

There’s something different this time. Not dominance.

Not smugness. Fear, maybe—just a flicker, but it’s there. The same fear I wore for seven years.

“Are we ready to begin?” his attorney asks, slicing through the silence.

Terrance inhales, like he might speak. But he doesn’t.

Gail squares her shoulders, “Has your client reviewed our latest offer?”

His attorney glances at the copy she handed over, “We have.”

“And?”

“No deal.”

Gail scoffs, disbelief sharp in the quiet room. “It’s a fair settlement, especially after the last seven years.”

“You’re asking for twice the legal limit,” he counters, frustration creeping in. “California law allows three and a half years of alimony. You're demanding seven.”

“She’s earned every minute of it,” Gail says, steady as ever. Terrance doesn’t react. He stares past us, unfocused, like the conversation barely registers. I study him. Still handsome but worn down. Hollow. Pale. Sharp cheekbones. Dark circles beneath his eyes. Gail’s voice snaps me back.

“Your client’s history of domestic violence says otherwise.”

“Hearsay,” his attorney snaps. “You can’t prove it.”

Gail opens her file and spreads a stack of documents and photos across the table. Terrance turns his head away, avoiding the bruises, the medical reports, the truth of what he’s done.

But I don’t look away. Not anymore.

The only reason I’m even sitting in this room today is because of a doctor who refused to pretend it was just another accident.

Who didn’t look the other way when I came in barely breathing, my ribs shattered, my eye swollen shut.

He called the police that night— finally —and helped get me into a domestic violence shelter where Terrance couldn’t reach me.

He gave me the evidence I needed to survive. To fight back. To be here, right now, staring Terrance in the face while he tries to pretend the past doesn’t exist.

But the photos don’t lie.

And this time, neither do I.

“Is this proof enough?”

“Anything could’ve caused those. Accidents happen, Gail.”

“Do they, Richard?” she says coolly. “You can deny it all you want, but the evidence is right here. Either your client agrees to the spousal support she has asked for, or these go to the judge. They’ll become public record.

And with your client’s family name? I’m sure you can imagine what that’ll do to their spotless reputation. ”

Terrance’s face contorts with fury, his features pulled taut like a spring ready to snap.

“You fucking bitch. You think you can ruin my life?” The words land like a blow. “You wanted it.”

I roll my eyes—classic deflection—the same tired script. Blame the victim, dodge the guilt. The room bristles with tension until Gail speaks, calm and composed.

“Mrs. Roberts endured years of abuse,” she says evenly.

“Dragging this before a judge won’t end well for your client.

She’s offering a clean break, far more generous than what he deserves.

Against my advice, I might add. With the evidence we have, she could take everything.

This is the deal. Take it, or we go to court. Your move.”

“You think you can extort me over a few bruises?” Terrance spits before his attorney can stop him, all but sealing his fate.

For years, I was nothing more than a pressure valve for his temper.

If work stressed him out or plans fell through, I paid for it.

With bruises. With silence. He cheated constantly—secretaries, waitresses, wives of business partners.

Terrance had charm in spades. He used it to hook me. Then he used it to trap me.

I tried to leave. God, I tried. But every single time, he found me.

Once, I made it three days—just three—before he dragged me back from a motel two states away.

It wasn’t until he hit me in public, right in front of a business partner, that everything changed.

One slip. One witness. And his perfect image cracked wide open.

I inhale deeply, trying to steady my pulse. Every nerve in my body screams to run, but I hold my ground. If I back down now, I’ll carry that regret forever.

“I didn’t provoke you. You hit me. You broke me. You turned me into someone I don’t recognize. That’s on you—not me.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at the table. Then, slowly, he looks away.

His attorney clears his throat, finally breaking the silence.

“Can I have a moment with my client?” Terrance’s attorney requests, masking the unease beneath it.

The request hangs in the air with unspoken tension, and after a brief, silent nod from Gail, he and Terrance slip from their chairs.

They move deliberately to the far corner of the confined room, creating a barrier of space that feels like an eternity's chasm.

Their heads bend toward each other, adopting a conspiratorial stance as they huddle together.

From this distance, their muted whispers are indecipherable, lost in the oppressive quiet that envelops us like a shroud.

I watch them intently. His shoulders are tense, squared with a stubborn defiance that I know all too well. It's the same stance he used to adopt before lashing out in anger—an anger that used to leave me shattered and fearful. But now, that fear is something I'm determined to overcome.

Several agonizing minutes tick by slowly as if time itself is reluctant to move forward. Finally, Terrance and his attorney cease their exchange. They return to the table with an air of reluctant acceptance weighing down their shoulders.

Terrance's face is impassive as he takes his seat again, avoiding eye contact as if looking into my eyes might burn him.

I study his face for any flicker of emotion—remorse or recognition of what he's done—but find only stone-cold indifference.

The silence stretches taut between us until it threatens to snap.

“We recognize how challenging this situation is,” his lawyer says, settling back into his chair. “However, we are prepared to accept your conditions. We agree to the proposed settlement and are ready to sign the documents to finalize the divorce.”

My heart stutters. It’s over. It’s really over.

The papers are passed across the table, the pen heavy in my hand as I stare down at the final line that still bears my name—his name. With a steady breath, I sign. One stroke after another, I sever the last legal tie binding me to the man who once promised me forever.

Terrance signs next, his expression unreadable. No words are exchanged between us. There’s nothing left to say.

A wave of relief crashes over me, stronger than I expected. I can finally begin to rebuild my life. It's been a long and brutal journey, but I know that with time, I’ll heal—and I’ll come back stronger.

I rise from the table and offer Terrance a faint smile. He gives a short nod, not quite meeting my eyes.

As soon as I step into the hallway and the door clicks shut behind me, I break. Tears spill freely, raw and unrelenting. My attorney catches me in her arms, holding me as I sob against her shoulder.

“You did it, Charlotte,” she whispers.

I draw back and wipe my face, clearing away the last tears he’ll ever cause. For the first time in seven years, I feel it in my bones—freedom.