Chapter 2 - The Office on Dearborn Street
Sarah’s office on the thirty-second floor of a sleek glass tower on Dearborn Street offered a panoramic view of the Chicago River, though today the water looked as leaden and cold as the November sky.
When the receptionist ushered me into Sarah’s corner office, my old friend looked up from a stack of deposition transcripts. The moment her eyes landed on me—standing in the doorway, hollow-eyed, leaning slightly against the doorframe, my clothes draping loosely over my wasted frame—the color drained entirely from her face.
Sarah dropped her pen, stood up so fast that her heavy mahogany chair shrieked across the hardwood floor, and rushed around the desk.
“Clara? My God!” she gasped, catching me by the shoulders as my knees threatened to buckle. “What happened to you? You look like... Clara, sit down, please.”
She guided me into a plush leather armchair, practically hovering over me before buzzing her assistant for water and a warm cup of tea. When the assistant scurried out, Sarah knelt beside my chair, her fierce legal demeanor instantly replaced by raw, protective friendship.
“I had a ruptured appendix. Severe peritonitis. Sepsis,” I answered in a voice that sounded like dry paper. “I spent thirty days on the seventeenth floor of Metropolitan General.”
Sarah’s eyes flared with sudden outrage. “Metropolitan General? But Marcus works there! He’s a star in their cardiovascular department! Why didn’t he call me? Why wasn't he taking care of you?”
I didn't cry. The well of tears had dried up somewhere around day fourteen in that hospital room, replaced by something much colder and much heavier.
Without a word, I opened my canvas tote bag, withdrew my iPad, and placed it flat on the center of her glass-topped desk. I slid it across to her.
“I need you to draft divorce papers, Sarah,” I said, my tone entirely devoid of inflection.
Sarah stared at me, blinking as if she hadn't quite heard correctly. “Divorce? Clara, honey, you’ve just been through a near-death medical trauma. People under extreme physiological stress often make impulsive decisions—let’s get you home, let’s get you some proper food, and—”
“Look at the screen, Sarah,” I interrupted softly.
She hesitated, then pulled the iPad toward her. Her eyes scanned the documents I had downloaded: the hospital administrative logs, the shift schedules, the glowing press releases of Marcus accepting awards at gala dinners, and most damning of all, Section 4, Paragraph B of the transplant quarantine protocol.
As she read, the professional warmth in Sarah’s face vanished, replaced step-by-step by a terrifying, cold judicial fury. The silence in the office stretched out, broken only by the distant hum of HVAC vents overhead.
When Sarah finally looked back up at me, her jaw was tightly set.
“He didn't even file a single dispensation request,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage. “And once the quarantine ended... he was literally giving televised interviews while his wife was dying five floors above him.”
“He was too busy celebrating,” I said.
“What do you want, Clara?” Sarah asked, her lawyer brain instantly clicking into gear. “Do you want to strip him blind? Do you want his medical license dragged through the mud? We can file emergency injunctions, expose his conduct to the hospital board, sue for emotional abandonment—name it, and I will tear his professional life apart.”
I shook my head slowly.
“No, Sarah. I don't want revenge, and I don't want a bloodbath. I just want out.”
I outlined my terms, and they were shockingly modest. We had no children to fight over. The brownstone in Lincoln Park was purchased during our marriage, and I proposed a straightforward, uncontentious 50/50 division of the home equity. Beyond that, I wanted no alimony, no prolonged court battles, and no entanglement in his finances. Each of us would keep our respective personal bank accounts, our separate vehicles, and our own dignity.
“Just a clean, surgical cut,” I said, looking her dead in the eye.
Sarah stared at me for a long moment, a mixture of deep sorrow and immense respect in her eyes. Then, she reached out and squeezed my hand.
May you like
“Done,” Sarah said firmly. “I’ll have the initial petition drafted by the end of the day. But Clara... where are you going to stay tonight? You are in no condition to go back to that house alone.”
“I’m not going back to Lincoln Park,” I replied, standing up with a newfound resolve settling into my bones. “I already rented a furnished short-term apartment in the Gold Coast. My bags are in the car.”
