The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Zara

As Mayhem pulls to the curb, I sit there for one breath longer.

Not because I’m afraid, but because I want to remember this exact moment.

The last stretch before the end.

The first step before the beginning.

I open the door.

The building is quieter than I expected.

Not empty, not lifeless, but contained in a way that feels deliberate, as though everything inside it has been arranged to keep emotion at a distance, to smooth out the edges of decisions that carry weight people would rather not feel too closely.

It’s all polished floors, muted tones, and the quiet, measured rhythm of people who deal in endings every day.

The receptionist looks up when I approach, her smile professional, practiced.

I give my name, and she tells me to take a seat, so I do.

I’m waiting all of three minutes when I hear a voice. “Mrs. McVale? I’m Phillip Meade.”

I look up.

A man stands in the doorway, mid-fifties, composed, his expression polite but curious in the way of someone who has already read a file and is trying to reconcile it with the woman in front of him.

I know that Jade e-mailed him a copy of the divorce papers and the prenup, so he’s definitely up to speed on my life, though I know nothing about his.

“That’s me,” I say, rising slowly. “For now, anyway. Please call me Ms. Callahan.”

My body reminding me in small, sharp ways that it’s still adjusting, but holding steady all the

same.

“Of course,” he says, leading me into his office. “Come in.”

The room is warm, lined with shelves, papers stacked neatly across the desk, everything in its

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place, everything controlled.

“T’ll be direct,” he says, his tone shifting slightly, losing some of its formality, gaining something more careful. “The prenuptial agreement is… comprehensive.”

Of course it is. Knox does nothing halfway.

“It outlines a fixed payout based on the duration of the marriage,” he continues, sliding a document across the desk toward me. “Ten thousand dollars per year, and you’ve been married just over three years.”

I know all of this, of course; I remember signing the agreement, and feeling back then that ten thousand dollars a year was a lot of money.

Now I know better.

“After lawyer and court fees, taxes, and processing,” he adds, “you’re looking at quite a bit less than thirty thousand dollars… probably in the neighbourhood of twenty thousand.”

I nod slowly. “That’s fine.”

He pauses, peers at me over his glasses.

“Ms. Callahan,” he says carefully, leaning back in his chair. “Given your position, your marriage to Mr. McVale, and the assets involved, you’re entitled to contest this. Strongly.”

The word lingers: contest.

Fight. Push back. Take more.

“You could argue very successfully for a larger settlement,” he continues, his voice steady, professional, but edged now with something closer to concern. “There are grounds to do so, and they are legally valid ones.”

My gaze lifts to his.

For a moment, I can see the version of this conversation that might have happened before.

The version where I hesitated, where I weighed what I could gain against what I might lose, where I tried to extract something meaningful from a marriage that never offered it.

But that version of me doesn’t exist anymore.

“I don’t want to contest it,” I say calmly.

He frowns slightly. “You understand what you’re giving up?”

Chapter 8

I do… far more than he realizes.

“Yes,” I say.

He studies me for a moment longer, searching, perhaps, for uncertainty, for regret, for something he can work with, something he can challenge.

But there’s nothing here.

“I just want it done,” I tell him quietly.

“I just want to be free from him.”

Claim

The words settle into the room with a finality that even he seems to recognize, because after a moment, he nods once, slowly, and reaches for the papers.

He turns them towards me, and indicates where I need to sign.

The pen rests beside them, simple, unremarkable, nothing like the weight of the moment it represents.

As I pick it up, I’m aware of everything and nothing all at once.

The feel of it in my hand, the slight tremor in my fingers that has nothing to do with doubt and everything to do with the fact that I’m closing something that has defined me for longer than I care to admit.

My name looks different when I write it this time:

Zara McVale.

I hope that this will be the last time that I sign that name.

I set the pen down gently, sliding the papers back across the desk, and as he gathers them, he moves through the process with practiced efficiency:

”

“I’ll send these across to Mr. McVale’s lawyer this afternoon,” he says, standing as I do. You’ll receive confirmation when he signs, and then you may expect the funds in your bank account shortly after. Probably within a week.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

He walks me to the door, his expression still thoughtful, still measuring, as though I’ve left something unresolved that he can’t quite name.

But there’s nothing left, not for me.

3/4

I reach the impressive lobby, push through the glass doors sparkling in the sunlight.

And the moment I step outside, my phone vibrates in my hand.

I glance down: Unknown number.

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