Chapter 7 - The Legal Reality
The offices of Vance & Associates smelled of expensive carpet cleaner and old paper. I sat across a mahogany desk from Marcus Vance himself—a silver-haired attorney with a sharp suit and eyes that had seen a thousand marriages die in fluorescent-lit cubicles.
He slid a thick packet of stapled documents across the polished wood toward me.
"She's moving fast, Mr. Cole," Vance said, his tone professional yet sympathetic. "Usually, when a couple separates this early, there's a cooling-off period. But Mrs. Cole instructed us to file the separation agreement immediately, with provisions for mediation regarding asset division and the Hyde Park property."
I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning legal jargon I barely understood. *Irreconcilable differences. Division of marital assets. Temporary spousal maintenance.* It all felt surreal, like reading the autopsy report of a living person.
"We haven't even been married a week," I muttered, shaking my head.
"Legally, yes," Vance replied, folding his hands on the desk. "Which actually simplifies some things regarding pre-marital assets, but complicates others. She's also requesting that both parties refrain from public commentary, specifically regarding the reception incident."
I looked up sharply. "The video?"
"Specifically," Vance nodded. "Her legal team is aware that the clip has gained significant traction online. She wants an ironclad gag order on both sides to prevent further public exposure."
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "She wants to protect her reputation. After she was the one who put me on display for 140 people."
"Mr. Cole, I understand your frustration," Vance said smoothly. "In family law, fairness and emotion rarely align. If you want to contest the speed of this filing, we can drag it out. But given the circumstances—the abrupt departure, the lack of reconciliation—an amicable, expedited separation might be your cleanest exit."
I stared down at the signature line on page four. *Ethan Cole.* My hand felt leaden. Signing those papers meant admitting defeat. It meant accepting that the last five years of my life—the apartments, the grocery store runs, the quiet evenings, the five-year anniversary trips—were just a prelude to a viral wedding joke that went too far.
"Give me twenty-four hours," I said, standing up and buttoning my suit jacket.
Vance nodded slowly, sliding the folder back into a leather binder. "Take all the time you need, Ethan. But remember: the internet doesn't wait twenty-four hours. That video is still climbing."
I walked out of the office into the glare of the afternoon sun. My car was parked three blocks away. As I walked down Fourth Street, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, half-expecting another legal notice.
Instead, it was a text from an unknown number containing a single link.
*Look at what your wife's friends are saying about you now.*
May you like
I stopped on the crowded sidewalk, my thumb hovering over the screen, hesitant to open the door to a world that had already decided who I was based on forty seconds of blindfolded humiliation.
***
