“You liked being the expert.”
“When we met, I listened when you talked about business. I asked questions. I went to events. I learned names. I listened to you describe negotiations I already understood because I wanted to hear how you saw them.”
“I never said you were stupid.”
“No.”
“You just never wondered whether I was knowledgeable.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Tell me what I did before we married.”
“You went to law school.”
“And?”
“You worked for a while.”
“For whom?”
His hesitation proved what I’d known: Aaron remembered the outline of my former career, but he’d never cared enough to retain its details.
“That’s what I thought.”
“This is about punishing me.”
“No.”
“You waited until a divorce to reveal this.”
“I disclosed it exactly when required.”
“You could have told me at any time.”
“You could have asked me about my life at any time.”
Nathan returned the discussion to the legal question.
“The legal point is straightforward. The asset predates the marriage. The records demonstrate continuous separation. Mrs. Prescott is not seeking any interest in Mr. Prescott’s separate holdings, and we expect reciprocal treatment.”
Caroline reviewed the figures.
“We are reviewing tracing.”
“Please do,”
“There are substantial distributions.”
“All of which went into premarital separate accounts.”
“And expenses?”
“Paid from the same.”
“No marital contributions?”
“None.”
Mark capped his pen.
“Then why was this not specifically scheduled in the prenup?”
“It was encompassed by the separate-property clauses negotiated by both sides.”
Everyone knew the agreement’s wording covered my premarital stake. The lawyers weren’t encountering a genuine mystery; they were processing a financial shock. Aaron studied the valuation, then lifted his eyes.
“You didn’t need anything from me.”
My throat tightened at the quiet assumption beneath his words.
“That’s what you got from this?”
“I’m asking.”
“No, Aaron. I didn’t need your money.”
“Then why did you let me pay for everything?”
“Because you wanted to.”
“You never stopped me.”
“Why would I?”
“Because apparently you could have.”
“Yes.”
I drew a breath.
“But I thought we were married. I didn’t realize every dinner bill was supposed to prove something.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
The air conditioning was almost audible in the silence.
“You want to believe there was an imbalance between us because that explains things in a way that makes you comfortable. You had the company. The money. The family name. The important meetings. I had the house and the dinners and the wardrobe and the charity invitations.”
“Claire.”
“You thought I stayed because leaving you would cost me too much.”
“I never said that.”
“Your mother did.”
“What?”
“She asked if I understood what divorcing you would mean.”
He glanced helplessly at Mark before I continued.
“I understand perfectly.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
“Which is?”
“That I was leaving.”
Aaron shifted his chair backward.
“Can we have the room?”
The attorneys exchanged looks. With my consent, they reluctantly stepped outside. Alone with Aaron, I noticed his anger had given way to exhaustion.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“About the stake?”
“Yes.”
“I assumed eventually you’d become curious enough about my finances to ask.”
“That sounds deliberately cruel.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“You watched me make assumptions.”
“I watched you make a lot of assumptions.”
“And you never corrected me.”
“I corrected you when it mattered.”
“When did you ever—”
“At your mother’s dinner two years ago.”
I reminded him of a dinner hosted by Margaret two years earlier. While discussing donations, she’d suggested that marrying a Prescott must have transformed my finances. I’d answered, “I was fortunate before Aaron too.” Aaron and his sister had laughed dismissively, and Margaret had patted my hand with an indulgent Of course you were, dear. I had let the moment pass. Now Aaron stared at the tabletop.
“I thought you meant your parents.”
“You never asked.”
His usual certainty abandoned him. I almost pitied him, until his next question.
“Did you marry me knowing you could leave whenever you wanted?”
I shook my head; it hurt that he could imagine such a thing.
“No.”
“I married you believing I would never want to.”
The response altered his expression. Silence stretched until he pressed his hands over his face.
“Claire…”
That softened voice summoned the Aaron I’d met in Cambridge, the one laughing in the rain. I couldn’t afford to mistake it for the man before me.
“I messed up.”
“Don’t.”
“I did.”
“Not here.”
“I don’t know when it happened.”
“I do.”
“It happened slowly.”
I met his eyes and made myself continue.
“You started coming home later. Then you stopped telling me why. You started bringing Jasmine everywhere. Then you started acting annoyed when I noticed. You stopped talking to me unless the conversation involved a dinner, a schedule, a family event, or something you needed handled.”
“I was under pressure.”
“So was I.”
“I know.”
“No, you know now.”
He winced. I was finished cushioning the truth for his sake.
“How long?”
“With Jasmine.”
“Claire.”
“You said whatever happened between you was complicated. I’m asking for the uncomplicated version.”
“How long?”
“A few months.”
Nausea rose in me as I absorbed the answer.
“A few months.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Nothing ever is.”
“I didn’t plan it.”
“I don’t care.”
“I never meant to leave you.”
His admission hurt especially because he hadn’t heard what it revealed about himself.
“You never meant to leave me.”
“No.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“I’m trying to tell you I didn’t want our marriage to end.”
“No. You wanted a wife at home and Jasmine everywhere else.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s exactly fair.”
He crossed to the window.
“I didn’t know what I wanted.”
“You knew enough to keep doing it.”
“I thought I could fix it.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before or after the sixth night you didn’t come home?”
“That’s cruel.”
“No.”
I rose, too. The wounded expression on his face wasn’t going to prevent me from finishing.
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