Page 23 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)
Chapter Twenty-One
Nicole
The hotel mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize—not because I look different, but because I’m choosing my armor deliberately instead of letting someone else dress me for battle.
“What are you most afraid of?” Quintus asks quietly as he waits patiently in the chair by the window in my room.
The question cuts straight to the heart of my panic.
“That I’ll become small again. That despite everything I’ve learned about myself, I’ll let him make me feel responsible for his choices.
” My voice wavers slightly. “That I’ll start apologizing for existing instead of demanding he take accountability. ”
He rises, walks to me and places his hands on my shoulders, grounding me as we look into the mirror together. “You are not the woman who left him. Remember who you have become.”
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “Who have I become?”
“One who knows her worth. One who chooses strength though it costs her comfort.”
The reminder makes me straighten my spine. That’s right—I did all those things. I chose to leave Scott, chose to go back to school, chose to learn self-defense, chose to drive to Missouri and spend time, money, blood, sweat, and tears learning to be strong.
And I chose to love a man who makes me bigger instead of smaller.
“He’s going to try to manipulate me,” I warn.
“I know. But manipulation only works on people who don’t recognize it for what it is.
” Quintus turns me to face him. “You see his games clearly now. That makes you immune to them.” He slides an errant wisp of hair behind my ear, then pauses as though he’s contemplating a big decision.
After a slight smile, he leans in and kisses my cheek.
It’s not sexual in any way, just a physical vote of confidence.
How could I not fall in love with this man?
I take a deep breath and check my phone. “Time to go face the music.”
“With me at your side,” he says simply, and the words settle something anxious in my chest.
Together. Not me handling Scott’s mess alone while someone else judges my choices. Not me being diminished by association with his failures. Just partnership, support, the quiet strength of having someone in my corner who doesn’t need to control the situation to feel important.
We take the elevator down in comfortable silence, both lost in thought. In the lobby, Quintus offers his arm with old-world courtesy that still makes my heart flutter.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready as anyone can be to clean up their ex-husband’s felony.”
His laughter follows us into the Chicago morning.
An hour later, we’re in the lawyer’s office, which is everything I expected—expensive, intimidating, designed to make people feel small. But I’m not the same woman who used to shrink in such places.
Scott is seated at the conference table. His face goes through several expressions when he sees Quintus behind me. Surprise, scheming, and that fake-friendly mask he puts on when he’s trying to gain an advantage.
Something shifts in Quintus’s posture as he studies Scott—a predatory stillness I recognize from the training yard.
When he told me about the arena, he mentioned learning to read opponents instantly.
Watching him assess my ex-husband, I can see that ancient instinct at work.
Whatever he sees in Scott’s demeanor, it’s setting off every alarm he spent decades honing.
“This is Quintus,” I say simply. Scott’s eyes narrow, assessing, but his attorney clears her throat, and Scott seems to decide not to insult anyone at this stage of the discussion.
I’m struck by how diminished he appears—shoulders curved inward, unable to meet anyone’s eyes directly. Is this really the pathetic creature who spent twenty-five years convincing me I was lucky he stayed?
“Nicole, you look wonderful,” he says with false charm. “Divorce clearly agrees with you.”
And so it begins. He’s an ass, but the silver lining is that I have no desire to make things easier for him.
“I’m here for the kids, not for you,” I respond with a crisp efficiency that surprises even me.
Scott’s face flickers with something—disappointment? Anger that his opening gambit failed?—before he rearranges his features into wounded surprise.
“Of course. I just thought… well, you always were better with money and legal stuff. I’m completely out of my depth here.”
The lawyer—a tired-looking woman who’s clearly dealt with too many cases like this—slides papers across the table.
“Mr. Thompson is facing embezzlement charges totaling one hundred eighty thousand dollars, plus penalties and legal fees. Without full restitution, he’s looking at three to five years in federal prison. ”
I scan the documents with the kind of focused attention I bring to my academic work. No emotional reaction, no immediate promises to fix everything. Just a professional assessment of a complex problem.
“The money went to gambling debts?” I ask.
“Poker games, mostly. Some sports betting.” Scott’s voice carries that wheedling quality that always made my skin crawl. “I kept thinking I could win it back before anyone noticed.”
“But you didn’t.” My tone remains neutral, factual. “Instead, you stole more.”
“I borrowed it,” he corrects quickly. “I always intended to pay it back.”
“With what money?” The question is delivered without heat, but it cuts through his rationalization like a blade. “You don’t have any legitimate source of income that could cover this amount.”
I watch him flounder, searching for an answer that doesn’t exist. The old me would have already started brainstorming solutions, taking responsibility for problems I didn’t create. This version of me just waits for him to untangle his own mess.
My mouth even opens to parrot the old script—I can call the bank, I’ll move things around—and I close it, deliberately, like setting down a weapon that isn’t mine to carry.
“I need help figuring out a payment plan,” he finally admits. “The lawyer says if I can make partial restitution and show good faith…”
“I’ll help organize a payment plan because it affects the kids,” I interrupt. “Not because I owe you anything.”
The distinction is crucial, and I can see it hits him as hard as I’d hoped. I’m not rescuing him out of misplaced loyalty or guilt. I’m protecting my children from the consequences of his choices.
“Nicole, come on. We were married for twenty-five years—”
“And divorced for almost two. Your financial decisions stopped being my responsibility the day you signed those papers.”
My voice carries quiet authority that transforms the entire dynamic of the room. The lawyer looks impressed. Scott’s manipulation attempts crumble against my calm professionalism.
But I can feel the effort this is costing me. The slight tension in my shoulders, the way I’m gripping my pen a little too tightly. Standing up to him is still hard work, even when I know I’m right. Under the table, Quintus’s hand briefly covers my knee—steady, anchoring.
When Scott explains why none of this is really his fault—the poker games were just bad luck, the betting was a sure thing that went wrong, the accounting irregularities were just temporary borrowing—I feel my old programming trying to kick in.
Instead, I let him talk himself into a corner while I focus on the actual numbers.
“These projections don’t work,” I say after several minutes of calculation. “Even with the most aggressive payment schedule, you’re looking at thirty years to make full restitution. The court won’t accept that, will they?” I look at his attorney.
“What are you saying?” Scott’s voice rises with panic before she can answer.
“I’m saying you need to liquidate assets. The boat, the motorcycle, the golf club membership. Everything nonessential.”
“But the boat is—”
“More important than avoiding prison?” The question shuts him up immediately.
Scott’s face tightens, eyes narrowing, and I can see him gearing up for some kind of attack. Then his expression softens, and I know exactly what’s going to happen next.
“Nicole, remember when we brought David home from the hospital? You said we’d always be a team.”
“We were—until ‘team’ meant I cleaned up your messes. That history doesn’t buy you absolution.” My pulse spikes at the familiar script tugging at me, tempting me to smooth things over. But I catch myself—this was his MO for years, and it’s not going to work anymore.
“You asked me, through our children I might add, to help you. Converting every asset you have into cash is the only way I see out of this mess. If your precious things are more important than staying out of jail, make your own choices.”
My God, did I just say that? Not only did I put my foot down, but I don’t feel any guilt. Not even a twinge! This is what growth feels like.
“This is the last time I clean up your mess, Scott. I’ll help organize a payment plan that keeps you out of prison because Michael, David, and Ava don’t deserve that shame. But after this? You’re on your own.”
The room falls silent except for the scratch of the lawyer’s pen taking notes.
Scott’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly. In twenty-five years of marriage, I never spoke to him like this. Never held him accountable without cushioning the blow with apologies and reassurances.
“The assets get liquidated,” I tell the lawyer. “All of them. We structure a payment plan based on his actual income, not his fantasy projections. And we build in consequences if he defaults.”
“Agreed,” the lawyer says, scribbling rapidly. “This is much more realistic than what Mr. Thompson initially proposed.”
An hour later, we’ve structured a workable payment plan. More importantly, I’ve done it without losing myself in the process.
“This could actually work,” the lawyer admits as we gather papers. “Assuming Mr. Thompson sticks to the schedule and doesn’t incur any additional debts.”
“I’m not betting on his following through,” I say, “if his track record is any indication, but at least we’ve set him up for success. I know one thing for certain…” I turn and spear him directly in the eye. “You won’t be getting any more help from me.”
Scott nods meekly, finally understanding that the woman who used to absorb his consequences has been replaced by someone who’ll let him face them alone.
As we leave the office, Quintus offers his arm again. “How do you feel?”
“Powerful,” I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. “And tired. But good tired.”
“You were magnificent in there. You stood firm without cruelty.”
His pride in my handling of the situation warms something in my chest that has nothing to do with sexual attraction. This is what partnership looks like—someone who celebrates your strength instead of feeling threatened by it.
Tomorrow, my children will meet him. I want their blessing, but I don’t need it. The only truth that matters is already written in my heart—I love him.