"She's contesting the divorce," she said flatly.
"She doesn't have grounds," I said.
"We both know that. She knows it, too, but she's trying to delay it. She's requesting mediation."
My jaw clenched. "Let her waste her time. I'll bring the receipts."
The mediation was scheduled a week later in a downtown office. I arrived early: suit pressed, head clear. Lena arrived late: disheveled, her once glowing confidence now replaced by worn-out excuses and smeared mascara. She barely looked at me. Good.
Maya went first. She calmly laid out the case: documented infidelity, financial misconduct, emotional manipulation. She cited my evidence like bullets in a loaded chamber. Lena tried to argue she was emotionally neglected.
The mediator, a gray-haired woman with eyes like knives, didn't flinch. "You committed sustained infidelity, Ms. Hart. That is not neglect. That is cruelty."
For once, Lena said nothing.
By the end, it was clear: there would be no alimony, no split of assets. She walked away with her clothes, a few keepsakes, and the echoes of a home she burned down herself.
And I walked out a free man.
Two weeks later, I received a letter from Charlotte Dalton, Chase's wife. It was handwritten:
"Leo, you didn't just save me, you woke me up. I would have spent years blaming myself, trying to fix him. But you gave me truth. That's more than most people ever get. I filed for divorce and I'm taking the kids. I've started my own business, too. Just wanted you to know you're not the only one who came out stronger. Gratefully, Charlotte."