Chapter 2 - THE DIVORCE HE HAD ALREADY PLANNED
By the time Adrian came home that night, I knew exactly how he intended our marriage to end.
I also knew I wasn’t going to let him choose the ending.
He walked into the kitchen at eight twenty carrying white roses.
My favorite flowers.
Once.
Years ago.
“Peace offering,” he said.
“For what?”
His smile faltered.
“For disappearing to New York for months.”
Months.
Not three months anymore.
Interesting.
I took the flowers.
“They’re beautiful.”
Adrian kissed my forehead.
That gesture used to make me feel cherished.
Now it felt like something you did to a child who had behaved well.
He poured himself whiskey.
“I knew you’d handle this better than most women.”
“Most women?”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
Most women would object to their husbands relocating across the country to comfort former lovers.
Most women might ask why nearly half a million dollars had been transferred to that woman.
Most women might be interested in discovering that divorce papers had been drafted before the husband ever mentioned leaving.
But Claire understood.
Claire waited.
Claire made everything easy.
I smiled.
“Adrian?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you ever regret marrying me?”
His glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Where did that come from?”
“Curiosity.”
He studied me.
Then he crossed the room and touched my waist.
“No.”
It was a convincing answer.
That was almost worse.
“You’re my wife.”
Not I love you.
Again.
He kissed my temple and went upstairs to pack.
I waited until I heard the shower.
Then I photographed every page of the divorce agreement.
I photographed Sophia’s transfer.
I photographed the lease.
At midnight, I sent the documents to an attorney named Rebecca Sloan.
I had found her through Professor Hale’s wife.
Rebecca called me ten minutes later.
“You need to know something before we discuss strategy,” she said.
“What?”
“Your husband’s businesses make this complicated.”
“I know.”
“No. I don’t think you do.”
Rebecca explained that several companies Adrian presented publicly as his individual holdings had undergone restructuring during our marriage.
Some shares had been transferred.
Some assets had moved into trusts.
Some had been placed under marital entities.
“You may own considerably more than you think,” she said.
I sat straighter.
“How much more?”
“I need documents.”
“I can get them.”
“Legally.”
“I know.”
Rebecca was quiet.
Then she said, “Claire, I’ve seen spouses prepare divorces secretly before. What concerns me is the timing.”
“Why?”
“The draft you sent me isn’t a normal preliminary agreement.”
“What is it?”
“It appears designed around a specific corporate event.”
My stomach tightened.
“What event?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The next morning, Adrian left for a meeting.
I went to his study.
For five years, I had managed his calendar, organized tax records, coordinated charity foundations, and maintained enough of his administrative world that nobody questioned when I entered his office.
Inside a cabinet were binders from Moretti Holdings.
I found the restructuring file.
Rebecca had been right.
A major transfer was scheduled for thirty days from now.
Adrian intended to consolidate several profitable properties into a new holding company.
Once complete, those assets would become harder for me to claim.
I photographed everything.
Then I noticed a familiar name.
Not Sophia.
Mine.
CLAIRE BENNETT MORETTI.
I read the document twice.
A trust created three years earlier owned eighteen percent of Moretti Hospitality.
The beneficiary was me.
My hands went cold.
Adrian had never told me.
Then I turned the page.
The trust could not be transferred, dissolved, or reassigned without my written consent.
Which meant Adrian’s upcoming restructuring could not happen unless I signed.
And suddenly I understood why he had been unusually affectionate for the past month.
Why his adviser had scheduled papers for me to sign next week.
Why Adrian believed I would always do whatever he asked.
He didn’t merely expect me to wait while he went to Sophia.
He needed my signature before he left.
The sound of the front door opening downstairs froze me.
Adrian wasn’t supposed to be home.
Footsteps moved toward the study.
I closed the binder.
Too late.
The office door opened.
Daniel Carter stood there.
Adrian’s adviser.
The man who had asked whether my husband loved me.
He looked at the documents.
Then at me.
May you like
And quietly said:
“So you finally found out.”
