THE BATTALION SON IN LAW

CHAPTER 4- Divorce settlement

Max clutched the divorce settlement papers in his hand, the crisp legal documents representing his ticket to freedom. The numbers on the financial agreement were more generous than he'd dared hope—enough to start over completely, far from the Hamilton shadow.

Finally, Max thought, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I'm actually getting out of here.

"Max, wait," Rebecca's voice was strained as she hurried to keep pace with his confident stride. "We should talk about this. About... everything."

"What's left to talk about?" Max asked, not slowing his pace as they moved through the grand foyer. "The papers are signed, the settlement is agreed upon, and I leave for Meridian Border Station tomorrow morning. I'd say we've covered all the important points."

Rebecca's heels clicked frantically against the marble floor as she struggled to match his determined gait. "We could have dinner tonight. Just the two of us. Maybe some wine, and we could—"

"No." Max's voice was firm, unwavering. "We're done, Rebecca. That's what you wanted for five years, and now you have it."

"That's not fair," Rebecca protested, her voice rising with desperation. "I never said I wanted—"

"You didn't have to say it," Max interrupted, finally stopping to face her. "You showed it every day. Every cold shoulder, every separate bedroom, every time you stood silent while your family treated me like garbage."

The afternoon sun streaming through the mansion's floor-to-ceiling windows cast harsh shadows across Rebecca's face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the tremor in her hands.

"Please, Max. One last dinner. Let me at least—"

"Let you what? Ease your conscience?" Max's laugh was bitter. "Save your regret for someone who still cares to hear it."

Behind them, Andrew Hamilton emerged from his study, his keen eyes taking in the scene with calculated interest. The old patriarch moved with the measured steps of a man accustomed to commanding respect, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere in the room.

"Rebecca, stop groveling," Andrew said sharply, his voice cutting through her pleas like a blade. "It's beneath the Hamilton name."

Rebecca's cheeks flushed crimson, but she lifted her chin defiantly. "Father, I'm trying to—"

"You're trying to undo five years of neglect in one evening," Andrew stated bluntly. "It's pathetic and it's pointless."

Max watched the exchange with growing amazement. In his previous life, Andrew had never spoken to Rebecca so harshly, had never acknowledged the problems in their marriage so directly.

"Max," Andrew continued, turning his attention to his soon-to-be former son-in-law, "I must admit, I'm impressed. I haven't seen this kind of spine from you before. It's... refreshing."

"Thank you, sir," Max replied, unsure whether the comment was meant as a compliment or an insult.

"My own children could learn something from your newfound backbone," Andrew mused, his gaze flickering meaningfully toward Rebecca. "They've grown soft, complacent. Perhaps danger will teach them what comfort couldn't."

He's actually respecting me for the first time, Max realized. Too bad it took a divorce and a suicide mission to earn it.

As evening approached, Max made his way to the ranch staff quarters, a simple building behind the main house where the real heart of the estate resided. The warm glow of yellow lights spilled from the windows, and the sound of genuine laughter drifted through the evening air—a stark contrast to the cold formality of the mansion.

"Max!" Millie Rodriguez, the head cook, beamed as he entered the communal dining room. Her weathered face creased into a smile that could have warmed the entire Texas plains. "We heard the news, mijo. Come, sit. I made your favorite—beef stew and cornbread."

The other ranch hands—weathered men and women who worked the land with calloused hands and honest hearts—welcomed him with genuine warmth. Tom Martinez, the stable master, clapped him on the shoulder.

"About damn time you got away from those vultures," Tom said gruffly. "No offense to your wife, but that family's got ice water in their veins."

"None taken," Max replied, settling into the familiar wooden chair. "They're not my family anymore."

"You'll always have a place here," Millie said, ladling generous portions of stew into his bowl. "This land remembers good people."

As the evening progressed, Max felt more relaxed than he had in months. These people saw him for who he was, not what he represented or who he'd married. When dinner ended, Millie pressed a carefully wrapped package into his hands.

"For your journey," she said softly. "Sandwiches, some of my cookies, and a thermos of coffee. The border station food... well, let's just say you'll be grateful for home cooking."

Max reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper—a detailed sketch he'd drawn of Millie in her kitchen, flour dusting her apron as she kneaded bread dough.

"For you," he said, offering her the drawing. "So you don't forget me completely."

Millie's eyes filled with tears as she studied the sketch. "It's beautiful, Max. I'll treasure it always."

The moment was shattered by the sound of unsteady footsteps on the porch. Rebecca appeared in the doorway, her usually perfect hair disheveled, her designer dress wrinkled. The sharp scent of whiskey preceded her into the room.

"Max," she slurred slightly, her eyes unfocused. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

The ranch hands exchanged uncomfortable glances, the warm atmosphere evaporating like morning mist.

"Rebecca, you're drunk," Max said quietly, standing to face her. "You should go back to the house."

"I wanted to talk," she insisted, swaying slightly on her feet. "About us, about everything I should have said—"

"Don't," Max cut her off, his voice gentle but firm. "Don't do this to yourself. Don't act like you're full of regret now that it's over. We both know the truth."

Rebecca's face crumpled, the alcohol stripping away her usual composure. For a moment, she looked like the vulnerable young woman he'd once fallen in love with, before the Hamilton name had hardened her heart.

"I just..." she began, then stopped, seeming to gather herself. "I just wanted to say... take care of yourself, Max."

The simple words carried more genuine emotion than anything she'd said to him in years. Max felt something twist in his chest—not love, but perhaps the ghost of what love had once been.

"You too, Rebecca," he replied softly.

She nodded once, then turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing into the night. Max watched her go, feeling nothing but a profound sense of closure.

Tomorrow, he thought as he prepared for his final night in the Hamilton house, tomorrow I start over. And for the first time in five years, I can't wait to see what comes next.