Divorce lawyer Higuruma X reader
You are in a loveless marriage with your husband of six years. Until he breaks the one rule you both religiously followed. No mistresses allowed. On any side. Surprisingly you don’t run straight to divorce, instead into arms of an overworked divorce lawyer.
Monday’s groceries, Tuesday is meal prep, Wednesday is family dinner— always with his family, Thursday is almost always a publicity outing, and Friday? Friday’s laundry day.
These are things you would’ve never payed attention to prior to getting married, yet here you were marking them on your calendar, folding a grown man’s clothes. Shit that you wouldn’t be caught dead with years ago.
It’s Thursday again, which means suffocating confrontations disguised as conversations.
You smile at yourself in the mirror, you’re in a black, halter dress, a little bit cinched on the waist to show your figure, but still modest enough.
Behind you, your husband fixes his cuff links, lazy fuck keeps glancing up at you from the mirror, waiting for you to notice him struggling and lend a hand.
Instead, you keep looking your reflection, trying on different earrings to see which one fit. Then, you settle on a pair of gold earrings, humming as you put them on.
Behind you, his gaze lingers, heavy and unmoving, its that look he gives you when he’s about to say some bullshit.
Like now, “Don’t you think this is a little much for a family dinner?” He says, eyes roaming over your hips. “Mom might not like it.”
You roll your eyes inwardly at the mention of the witch his mom.
Maybe the better adjective for her would be bitch. A nasty, snarky, hook nosed bitch, who couldn’t stop babying her thirty-something year old son.
You would think it was a TSA screening the way she would feel the need to squint her beady little eyes at you, searching for things about to pick at.
She said since your nails were always done, it must mean you never cooked for her son, even though he had more than enough money to afford a cook. She said you dress too scandalous, like you were supposed to put on a potato sack simply because you were married.
And the worst part? You took these critiques to heart. Gone were the days of you taking care of yourself and dressing for you, all because you were married.
Your fists clenched at your side. Those days of you dimming your shine for some man and his family were over.
Now you knew how to deal with people like this. Never give them anything to work with.
“Nope.” You replied cooly, popping the p as you grabbed a clutch off your extensive collection.
Bypassing him on your way out the walk-in closet, your heels clicking and clacking on the marbled floor.
“Where are you going?!” He called out, staring at you in disbelief.
“To the car, You can drive the other one and meet me there.” And with that, you were out, adjusting your shades as well.
Silence hung, heavy in the room. Your fork scrapes against the porcelain dish, and suddenly the previously downcast eyes have all shot to you.
You continue eating calmly, ignoring the pointed look your husband shoots you.
“Y/n,” he mumbles, a hand drifting off to squeeze your leg, pretending to be discreet, but his eyes stayed on his mother. “Please eat a little more quietly.”
You shake his leg off you, leaning over to scoop yourself some more pasta, completely disregarding everyone’s stares of horror.
Your eyes drift over to your mother in law, who sits at the end of the table. Still no reaction. Not even a look.
Not until you pick up a forkful of pasta to your lips, slurping unashamed, sauce getting all over your lips.
Bam! She slams her cup down on the table, red wine spilling everywhere, staining the napkins before her a deep crimson.
You look up at the sound, looking innocent as can be, “Is something wrong mom?”
At once, anger lashes out at you, “Don’t call me mom!”
Besides you, your husband immediately begins placating her, “Mo—
“No!” She says firmly, raising a hand up to stop him. Her eyes narrow back at you. “What an embarrassment it is to have you as a daughter-in law, you have no manners—
“Stop interrupting me Jonas! She has no manners, no decorum, she is not fit to be your wife, or bear our family name!” She snaps, her voice trembling with a raw, uncontrollable anger.
It all enters in one ear and out, you were still keeping your composure.
“Y/n. Pour mom some more wine.” Jonas, your husband says next to you, still sucking up to his mother like a little coward.
You nod, picking up the bottle of wine— probably more expensive than any of your purses, and stand up, walking over to her.
As you walk close, her eyes stay fixed forward, hand holding her wine glass out for you to pour in.
Like you were some type of maid, she could order around with no care in the world.
All it takes is one tilt of the bottle, and a cute little, oops! from your glossed lips, and crimson red flows from the bottle down the base of her head.
Your father in law— who had been radio silent the entire time stands up, furiously, his face redder than the wine.
Even your husband gets up, slamming the table, steam practically oozing out his ears.
Once the bottle is empty, you calmly set it down, grabbing your clutch and walking out the restaurant, listening to their enraged voices fade out with every step you took.
When you get back into your car, you can’t help but burst out laughing, grabbing yourself the outfit you had in the back and slipping it off, before you drove off.
———————————————————The buzz of the club is almost deafening around you. To others, it’s a turn off, it’s a reason for them to go to a bar instead, but to you, it’s everything you could ever want.
you walked in, pulling down on your tiny little sequenced skirt. You paired it up with a black, backless draped halter top, which showed more skin than it covered.
It had been so long since you walked inside a club, been so long since you set free and danced to your heart’s content.
That reputation clause had been more of a leash on you, hindering you from doing anything that you enjoyed.
No bars, no clubs, no drinking, moderate dressing, fuck he might as well’ve killed your social life.
Except he did. While you weren’t barred from speaking with your friends, you were barred from doing anything with them that you normally did.
Those bars and clubs, the drinks? All of it was done with them. So when you married your husband, it all got forcefully shoved off the table.
You shook your head, trying to rid yourself of those thoughts.
Tonight was about you. About your fun, snd reclaiming your everything back.
Speaking of your friends, one of them, Tierra, pulls you into a tight embrace, early bawling her eyes out.
“Ohh, baby I missed you so much!” She whined, half dramatic, half serious.
It had been years since you guys got to hang out like this, not just for a shopping day, or a spa day with them, but dancing, just like the old days.
Another one of your friends, Laura, joins in—both the hug and the sentiment. “I can’t even be mad at you,” She sniffles, giggling.
One by one, everyone in the friend group joins in, turning the hug into a giant group hug.
You felt your eyes mist up, the warmth of your friends were so much more comforting than seeing their faces over FaceTime or simply texting them.
After a few minutes, all five of you girls separate, still wiping your eyes.
“But what happened to your husband? Wouldn’t he be mad you’re here?”
It dawns on you then that you still haven’t informed them about the whole cheating situation. It’s a far cry from the lack of fulter you had with them years ago. If you’re period was even a day late, if your doordash didn’t arrive on time, or maybe you picked your nose too hard, you would be so quick to tell them.
Rolling your eyes, you said, “That loser? Please. He cheated.”
A gasp escaped one of their mouths, then another, a range of disbelief and anger.
“How could anyone cheat on you?”
Finally, Tierra asks the question that had been on everyone’s minds. “So what are you gonna do?”
You sip on the margarita in your hand, swirling the cup around. “Nothing.”
It’s funny how when you said nothing, your friends immediately knew what it meant.
You were going to do the absolute most.
i was rewatching attack on titan while doing this and the slurping pasta scene reminded me of Sasha stuffing her face. anyways Higuruma will be introduced in the next chapter 😏
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