Chapter 7: Edge of Control
Raf
Everyone had heard the stories, hell, she’d hired her because of them.
Jennifer Turner didn’t just win; she dismantled. Men twice her size left court looking like they’d survived war. Word was, she once made a studio head cry on the stand. Raf had worked with her long enough to know none of it was exaggeration.
She watches Jennifer now across the table, reminding herself why she’s here. Teased honey-blonde hair, lipstick like fresh blood, a smoky eye sharp enough to cut. A green Tory Burch pantsuit clings to her commanding frame, diamond-studded nails ticking in slow, measured judgment against the legal brief.
“Ethan’s legal team isn’t playing fair,” she says crisply. “They’re painting you as unstable. Reckless. They’re shaping a story.”
Story. Like Raf was just a character in someone else’s version of her life. She should be numb to this by now. And yet, each day brings something new.
A memory slips in, uninvited. 2010. Before the kids. She’d been on the verge—early design features, a whisper of buzz. The big break was supposed to be a Better Homes & Gardens spread: a Sonoma vineyard estate she’d designed, full of rustic pieces and flowing greenery. Her dream project. Her launchpad. Ethan had played the part of the supportive husband, or so she thought, until she overheard him on the phone.
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“It’s not a good look for us,” he said. “I’d rather this one not run.”
The next day, her editor called, curt but apologetic.
“Last-minute changes. We’re pulling the piece. Out of my hands.”
It didn’t make sense… until it did. Weeks later, a friend let it slip: Ethan had called her business a “hobby.” Said her success made her unpredictable. And as she knew all too well, Ethan hated what he couldn’t control. Finally, everything added up.
“He’s been doing this for years,” she says, blinking back to the present. “Making sure I never got too far.”
Jennifer nods, flipping another page. “Because if you did, you might realize you don’t need him.”
“He doesn’t get to win.”
“Then give him nothing, Raf. No missed pickups. No last-minute trips out of town without the kids.”
Trips without the kids? She’d barely left LA County since COVID. She resists the urge to issue the correction.
“Stay clean,” Jennifer says, sliding a document across the desk. “He’s betting you’ll collapse. And when you don’t? We’ll gut him.”
Raf’s Goyard vibrates. She reaches in and checks her phone. On the screen: Alexander’s name.
Checking in. Will I see you this week? Risky if we don’t keep up.
He’s been so attentive lately… too attentive. Texts. Check-ins. Constant touchpoints. Even outside his office, it’s starting to feel like one long therapy session. But she had to wonder, was this normal therapist behavior? Or something else?
No. He’s just trying to help. He’s on my side.
She types: Sorry, yes.
Her thumb hovers. She holds a breath.
“Everything okay?”
Raf looks up at Jennifer, brushing her off with a flicker of a smile, almost convincing. “Everything’s fine.”
Then she finishes the text: I’ll make time later this week.