The decision hadn’t been a lightning strike; it was a slow dawn. After ten years of walking on eggshells, checking my phone’s location settings, and apologizing for things I hadn’t done, I was done.
I waited until Mark went to his golf tournament. I packed a single bag. I didn’t go to a friend’s house—he would look there. I went to a hotel downtown, paid in cash, and opened my laptop. I had a plan. I needed the best representation money could buy because Mark wouldn’t let me go without a war.
I finally built up the courage to leave my abusive husband.
I made a list. I researched the most ruthless, effective litigators in the city. I found the “Sharks”—the ones who ate men like Mark for breakfast.
Monday morning, I walked into the marble lobby of the first firm on my list. I felt strong. I felt ready.
Ten minutes later, I walked out confused. The receptionist had taken my name, checked the computer, and turned pale. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “We cannot represent you due to a conflict of interest.”
I went to the second name on the list. Same result. “Conflict of interest.”
I went to the third. The fourth. The fifth.
I went to the top five divorce lawyers in town, and all of them turned me down.
By the time I stood in the elevator of the fifth firm, my hands were shaking. Paranoia, that old familiar friend Mark had installed in my brain, began to whisper. He knows. He got to them.
I refused to leave the fifth office. I stood at the desk, tears threatening to spill. “Please,” I begged the assistant. “You have to tell me why. I don’t know anyone in this city. How can there be a conflict with everyone?”
The assistant looked around, checking if anyone was listening. She leaned in, her voice a hush of pity.
“Mrs. Vance,” she said. “Your husband was here last week. He didn’t hire us. He just paid for a one-hour consultation.”
The floor seemed to drop out from under me.
“My husband had scheduled ‘consultations’ with every single one of them,” she confirmed.
He hadn’t needed a lawyer. He needed to talk to them just enough to share privileged information, legally barring them from ever representing me against him. It was a strategy known as “conflicting out.” It was cold, calculated, and expensive.
He had done this just to create a conflict of interest so I couldn’t hire them.
I walked out of the building and sat on a bench on the busy sidewalk. I realized then that he had known I was leaving before I did. He had anticipated my moves like a grandmaster playing chess against a toddler. He hadn’t just locked the front door; he had bricked up the windows and cemented the chimney.
I looked at the city skyline, full of offices I couldn’t enter. He was controlling me even as I tried to leave.
But as the initial wave of terror subsided, a new, harder feeling took its place. He had spent thousands of dollars and hours of time trying to block me. He was terrified of me finding my voice. He thought he had checkmated me.
I pulled out my phone and searched for “Lawyer #6.” He might have bought the top five, but he couldn’t buy them all. I stood up, wiping my face. He had made the game harder, but he had also confirmed one thing: I was a threat worth stopping. And that meant I was strong enough to win.
