Chapter Text
You're my lifeline, and you're trying to kill me. If I wasn't me, would you still feel me? Like on my worst days?
You sat quietly at the kitchen table. Glass of wine empty and dry, and you've been drinking right from the bottle. Your children are in bed, tucked in for the night after spending the day being spoiled. You went all out today, deciding that your daughter Iyana and your son Jackie could use the fun. After all, depending on how this conversation went, their lives were going to be changed drastically. On the table is your prenuptial agreement, something you thought you'd never have to get out and look at. Next to it is a manilla folder, and in that folder is the photos.
Photos and records of everything the private investigator had uncovered. You had this folder for two weeks before you opened it up. It wasn't because you were afraid of what was in it. No, it was because you didn't want to go crazy right away and leave your kids orphaned because you were liable to murder Captain John Price. Your husband of ten years.
You'd met him by chance. His task force had been assigned to working with the task force you provided contracted work with. You weren't some fancy soldier or government operator. You were just some woman who was good with numbers and analytics and noticing patterns. So it was inevitable that you would notice the pattern of your husband cheating.
It started small. He would be staying at work a bit later than usual sometimes. Maybe he would be out with his team at the bar a bit later than usual. But why would the bank statements not match up those nights? Two charges, one on the card and then a withdrawal for cash from an atm? He normally paid for his team after missions, so the first charge made sense, but the cash withdrawal not so much. Maybe it was for tips after drinking? No, because the withdrawal happened often, and from the account, that was his mad money. The account you only checked when you wanted to slip him money for something nice and fun, in the same fashion that he would do you. And it was always for the same amount, 600 pounds each time.
It spiraled from there. He was careful not to get unfamiliar perfume on him. Didn't get lipstick stains on shirts. What he didn't think you'd do was check his milage on his truck. From home to base was only 20 miles. Base to bar 10 miles. On Thursdays, when he works late, he comes back, and the miles are off for the week.
Patterns is what made you decide to hire a private investigator. And right after, you locked everything down. No sex on the account of your gynecologist saying "Mrs. Price, we're just worried about your cervical health. We need to monitor it."
John Price took it for what it was.
I don't care about the lights or the beams. Spend my life in the dark for the sake of you and me
The front door opens, and it's a Friday night that won't be soon forgotten. You hear John lumbering about. He's on the phone letting Simon know he got home just fine. You feel your insides curdle, and you wonder if Simon, who was the best man at your wedding, knew about this.
John walks past the dining room, putting away his phone, and he stops when the light flicks on. He looks like a deer caught in headlights as he stares at your carefully composed form. "Sweetheart?" He smiles that handsome smile of his. "You didn't have to wait up for me."
"I know John." You say, voice devoid of emotion. Despite the alcohol in your system, you don't slur your speech. "Have a seat. We we need to talk." You watch as his eyes flick down to the wine bottle and then back to your impassive face.
"You okay, Sweetheart?" He comes close and places a hand to your shoulder. His eyes finally land on the prenuptial agreement and the folder and he knows something isn't right. "Love, you've been drinking, let's get you to bed." He gently tries to urge you up and away from the table.
Instead, he hears the safety of a gun go off. And slowly, you press it to his side. "It's loaded. Now either you sit down and we talk, or I swear John we are about to see how serious we take those vows 'till death do us part'."
Even he knows not to test a civilian with a firearm. He glances towards the steps that lead to your children, and he decides its best to go along with this. He doesn't want the kids waking up. "What's this about?" His voice is calm and sturdy. He's in Captain mode, the version you first met.
"Open that folder, John, and tell me what you see." You finally look at him. Really look at him and see him for what he is. A liar, manipulator, and the man you gave 12 years of your life to, and pushed out 3 kids and suffering a miserable miscarriage while he was deployed.
It takes a moment, but he opens the folder, and the pictures spill out. It's photos of a woman, pretty and younger than you. Body still tight, never having to push out a kid and go through gestational diabetes. She's vibrant and young and looks similar to what you used to look like. The color drains from his face and his eyes snap up to yours.
"Sweetheart -" He says, trying to figure out where the photos came from. He's a captain in the S.A.S. He's always got his wits about him. "I don't know -"
"Keep looking John." You say and cross your legs. And there are photos of him with this woman, holding hands and kissing. He was careful to be nowhere near the frequent haunts you and him and the kids had. Her social media screen shots are amongst the photos along with bank statements with regular weekly withdrawals of the 600 pounds.
Your eagle eyes watch him closely. He sits down the photos and meets your gaze. At least he has the decency to do that. It's so quiet you can hear a a fly wash it's face. Your martial home knows that this is the eye of the storm. Next, you open up the prenuptial agreement, ignoring his excuses. They go in one ear and out the other.
"John Price. Remember when you said you wanted a prenuptial agreement since that first marriage was such a mess?" You ask. You flip to page 4 out of 5, and scan the page for lines 15.
"Sweetheart, you're drunk. Why don't we talk about this in the morning?" He moves the take the gun from you and you point it at him. "Put it down Love-"
"I swear I'll kill us both. Do you think I won't?" You say. "Now shut the fuck up and listen."
It's tense, and he really doesn't want to hurt you or have you shoot if he disarms you and wake the kids. He is the hostage for once in an actual hostage situation he has no control over. He lets out a deep sigh and scrubs a hand down his face. "Fine."
"Now. We have a clause that says, if either of us cheats, the offending party gives up 70% of all assets earned during the marriage plus child support and alimony if there is proof."
He visibly gulps. There's sweat on his forehead.
"There's the proof. I have copies with my sister." You say. "Now, either we can renegotiate the rules to our marriage or we can get divorced."
"Love, why don't we try therapy?" He asks, voice quiet. "I know it's no excuse but work-"
"Work is hard for you huh?" You say with a dry laugh, "you get shot at. Shipped off to fuck all nowhere on the regular."
"Sweetheart that's not what I mean. Things have just been different with us."
"When did they become different?" You ask. You already knew when. Last year, when the miscarriage happened. You became a shell of yourself, and when he got back from his disastrous mission, you comforted him. It was three months of hell. You had post partum depression with no baby to show for it. Your sexdrive nonexistent due to the antidepressants. The stress of taking care of the two kids you did have. Dealing with tears and meltdowns and crash outs while he was playing hero.
As expected, he stays quiet.
"John Price. I became a stay at home wife and mother at your request. Put my career on hold because you wanted the kids to have their mother home, so you wouldn't worry about us and our safety. Twelve years, gone just like that." You shake your head. "I know appearances are important to you and your military circle of higher-ups. I know this clause in the prenuptial agreement will ruin you financially. You and I both know you wouldn't want to explain why you're getting divorced to your family and why you have only visitation rights to your kids. So here's what we are gonna do." Your grip on the gun tightens. You pinch the bridge of your nose with your free hand.
"I still think we should revisit this when you're sober Love." He whispers. The shame is thick in his voice, in how he holds his shoulders.
"No. Your choices are we stay married and things appear normal. You can have your sugar baby or whomever she is to you. She doesn't meet our kids. You keep her out of our house. We won't share a bedroom or a bed. We still parent our children together. You have your fun, I'll have my fun. The same rules that apply to you also apply to me."
You both know that John is possessive. He never liked sharing. There have been times in your early stages of the relationship where her had proven as much. Mid-day fucking in his office, with him leaving marks that couldn't be hidden by your blouses. All because Allen, your coworker, got you an iced latte, or Drew smiled too long at you during information briefings. His jaw clenches and works, most likely grinding his teeth at the thought you being wrapped up in some other man's arms.
"No." He says, "That's not happening."
"Then you need to go and get you a divorce lawyer that can argue your case pretty damn well." You move to stand. "If you want to sleep on it. Do it on the couch or your office, but you need to have an answer for me tomorrow night after me and the kids get back from my parents."
You don't say anything else as you disappeared up the steps.
You don't see how he places his face in his hands and tries to fight back tears.