“We can discuss the legal details through our attorneys.”
“You retained an attorney already?”
“Nathan Brooks.”
Nathan’s name made Aaron freeze; of course he knew the lawyer’s reputation.
“Brooks?”
“Yes.”
“You talked to a lawyer before talking to me?”
“I talked to you for three years.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“No. It’s not.”
He dragged a hand through his hair.
“This is insane.”
“No, Aaron. It’s overdue.”
“You don’t end a marriage with a Slack message.”
“I didn’t.”
“The marriage ended before the message. I simply stopped pretending otherwise.”
“You think you know something you don’t.”
For months, Aaron had used that claim to quiet me whenever Jasmine seemed too close or attended yet another client dinner. He’d pointed to her knowledge of accounts and clients, her membership on the team, the importance of her position. I’d supposedly misunderstood corporate events and seen meaning where none existed. Hearing the same excuse now, I felt nothing but readiness for an answer.
“Then explain it,”
Aaron tried to speak, then reconsidered. His inability to answer told me more than another denial would have.
“Aaron.”
He turned his face away. I asked despite the sudden tightness in my chest.
“Were you with Jasmine last night?”
“It was complicated.”
Confirmation struck sharply, bringing almost as much relief as pain.
“Were you with her?”
“We were talking.”
“Until after three in the morning?”
“Claire—”
“Yes or no?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I was with her.”
A heavy hush settled over us. I’d thought hearing the truth would shatter me; instead, it exposed how foolishly I’d trusted his explanations.
“Did you stay with her?”
He didn’t respond, and I forced out the next question.
“How long?”
“Don’t do this.”
“How long?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I gave a brief, broken laugh.
“You stayed out all night with another woman, and your position is that the duration doesn’t matter?”
“I’m saying whatever happened between Jasmine and me does not justify what you did today.”
Again, he was more interested in what I’d done than in his own betrayal. My legs felt unsteady, and I sank onto the mattress.
“You know what’s interesting?”
He remained silent as I explained the months spent doubting my own instincts.
“I spent months wondering whether I was becoming paranoid. I wondered if I was jealous. Possessive. Insecure.”
“I would see you standing beside her and tell myself there was probably a business reason. I watched you laugh with her in ways you stopped laughing with me. I watched her know things about your schedule before I did. I watched you look for her when you entered rooms.”
“Claire—”
“And every time I tried to talk to you, you made me feel embarrassing for noticing.”
A fleeting change crossed his expression.
“That,” I said, “is the part I don’t forgive.”
“I never meant to make you feel—”
“You didn’t care how I felt.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then tell me what I drank at the winter gala.”
He blinked as if the questions were unreasonable.
“What?”
“The Prescott Foundation gala. December. What did I drink?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“What color was my dress?”
“Claire.”
“Who took me home?”
What he couldn’t remember wounded me. I made him hear what the forgotten evening had felt like.
“I left early,” I told him. “You stayed because Jasmine wanted you to meet someone from New York. At least that was what you told me.”
“I had work.”
“You always had work.”
“I run a global company.”
“Yes.”
I rose to gather another armful of clothes.
“And apparently that requires staying overnight with Jasmine Cole.”
“This conversation is going nowhere.”
“No. It finally went somewhere.”
“I’m done.”
After a silence, Aaron asked softly, “What do you want?”
I stopped folding.
“What?”
“Money?”
“If this is about the prenup, we can negotiate. If you feel the agreement was unfair, I can have Mark look at it. If you want the Marblehead place formally confirmed as separate property, fine. If you want more liquidity immediately, fine. But blowing up our marriage publicly—”
The more he spoke of terms and payments, the more absurd it seemed. My husband approached every disagreement as a transaction. Money could settle discomfort; an agreement could contain shame; surely I must have a price.
“You think I’m doing this for money.”
“I think people don’t hire Nathan Brooks unless they expect a serious financial fight.”
“I hired Nathan because I expect you to turn this into one.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Everyone says that at the beginning.”
My incredulous laughter disappeared.
“Get out.”
“This is my house too.”
“Then stay downstairs. I’m packing.”
“Claire.”
“Get out of the room.”
After staring at me, Aaron finally walked away. His steps retreated along the hall, and soon the front door slammed again. I collapsed to the floor and wept until my face ached. I mourned the younger woman who’d trusted him, the countless questions I’d swallowed for fear of sounding jealous, and those evenings when he’d seemed most alive around Jasmine. Leaving him didn’t instantly erase the man I’d loved.
I could still picture twenty-nine-year-old Aaron outside a small Cambridge Italian restaurant, holding his jacket above my head during a downpour. We both got drenched; he’d laughed until he could hardly breathe. Some part of me might always love that version of him. But he’d confused my patience with weakness, and assumed that enduring disappointment meant I’d tolerate contempt forever.
My phone displayed two messages from Margaret:
CLAIRE, CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. THIS HAS GONE FAR ENOUGH.
Whatever issue exists between you and Aaron should have remained private. You have created a serious problem for the company.
Not one word concerned our marriage. Five minutes later, when she called again, I answered.
“Hello, Margaret.”
“What were you thinking?”
She skipped any greeting or concern. Apparently mother and son shared their first instinct.
“I’m not discussing my marriage with you.”
“You already discussed it with five hundred employees.”
“I made one statement.”
“You accused my son of infidelity in a corporate communication channel.”
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