Chapter3
“What about it?”
“The amount will not change. Walsh Development is making a major acquisition, so he proposes paying the remaining $8.8 million over four months rather than two.”
“No.”
“I understand your concern, but—”
“The agreement says three installments of $4.4 million. One has been paid. The next two will be paid on the dates he signed.”
“He is asking for flexibility.”
“He can sell his watch.”
I ended the call and finished dinner.
Maya’s response to my text was immediate.
I KNEW HE’D TRY SOMETHING.
I HAVE THE AGREEMENT, I wrote. IF HE MISSES A PAYMENT, I’LL ENFORCE IT.
DO YOU HAVE A LAWYER?
NOT YET.
I DO. ADRIAN COLE. FAMILY LAW AND HIGH-ASSET DIVORCES. HE WAS MY COLLEGE ROOMMATE’S OLDER BROTHER. HE TERRIFIED OUR LANDLORD INTO RETURNING THREE SECURITY DEPOSITS.
She sent his number.
I saved it but did not call. The second installment was not due for another month. I wanted to see whether Ethan was testing me or truly planned to breach the agreement.
At my next appointment, both babies were growing well. I left St. Anne’s carrying prenatal vitamins and nearly collided with Margaret Walsh.
Ethan’s mother wore cream wool and pearls at ten in the morning. An assistant trailed her with a phone and a folder.
“Claire?”
I stopped.
Her gaze traveled from my loose sweatshirt to my flat shoes. I turned slightly so my coat hid the small curve of my stomach.
“Mrs. Walsh.”
“So it’s true. You and Ethan are divorced.”
“Yes.”
Relief crossed her face. “It should have happened sooner. Ethan needs a wife who can stand beside him in business. Not someone who stays home all day.”
She did not say useless. She did not need to.
I had heard the household staff repeat her opinions often enough.
“We agree on one thing,” I said. “The marriage should have ended sooner.”
I walked past her.
“Claire,” she called. “Thirteen million dollars is more than enough. Don’t get greedy.”
I did not turn around.
The second payment was due four weeks later.
At ten in the morning, nothing arrived.
At noon, nothing.
At five, my account still showed no transfer.
Attorney Baker answered on the third ring.
“The payment is due today,” I said.
“Mr. Walsh needs seven additional days.”
“He has until noon tomorrow. After that, my attorney will contact you.”
I called Adrian Cole.
His voice was low and direct. “Adrian Cole.”
“Mr. Cole, my name is Claire Morgan. Maya Reed gave me your number.”
“She told me you might call. Marital settlement enforcement?”
“Yes.”
“Send me the agreement and proof of the missed payment. Come to my office at ten tomorrow.”
No reassurance. No dramatic promises. Just the next useful step.
“I’ll be there.”
I sat back and touched the rise of my stomach. At sixteen weeks, it was becoming harder to hide.
Ethan did not know.
Margaret might have guessed at the hospital, but if she had, she had not said anything yet.
The twins were not leverage. They were not a bargaining chip. They were simply the one part of my future I refused to place anywhere near Ethan’s hands until I had to.
The next morning, Adrian met me in a glass-walled conference room at Cole & Reyes.
He was in his early thirties, tall and lean, with black-framed glasses and a dark blue shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He took the agreement, read every page, and frowned at the payment section.
“The default language could be better,” he said. “But the obligation is clear. If he misses the deadline you gave him, we file a motion to enforce and ask for fees.”
“Do it now.”
He looked up.
“If I give Ethan a week, next month he’ll ask for two. Then he’ll turn the final payment into a favor I’m supposed to beg for.”
Adrian nodded once. “We’ll send a demand today and prepare the motion.”
He asked enough questions to understand the marriage, but he did not make me relive it for sport. Before I left, he said, “Keep any messages about the payments. Also preserve records showing the financial arrangement during the marriage and anything relevant to the affair. We may never need them, but don’t destroy them.”
“I won’t.”
That night, I exported two and a half years of texts.
Most of mine said good morning, are you coming home, what would you like for dinner, or I don’t feel well.
Most of Ethan’s said busy, no, later, or pick up my suit.
The winter before, I had sent him a message when I was running a fever of 103.
Can you come home? I’m scared.
Take some Tylenol. I can’t leave.
The next morning he claimed he had worked all night. Lila’s social media showed a champagne glass and the cuff of Ethan’s favorite shirt at a lakefront hotel.
I saved everything.
Near midnight, something brushed inside my abdomen.
I froze.
It happened again, light as a fingertip from the other side.
The babies’ first movement.
I covered the spot with my palm.
“Hi,” I whispered.
In the quiet apartment, they answered with another flutter.
Three days after Adrian sent the demand, the second $4.4 million arrived.
I transferred Maya’s sixty-eight thousand dollars back the same afternoon, with enough extra to cover the interest she claimed she did not want.
She called within thirty seconds.
“Why is there an extra five thousand dollars in my account?”
“Late fee.”
“I did not charge you a late fee.”
“Then use it to buy earplugs for when the twins arrive.”
“I’m sending it back.”
“I’ll send it again.”
We argued until she agreed to let me pay for the cribs instead. It was the kind of fight I had missed during my marriage: two people disagreeing without either one trying to make the other smaller.
Adrian texted one question.
Payment received?
Yes. Thank you.
Good. Call me before the third due date if he proposes any new documents.
I promised I would.
Then I ordered the biggest fish taco platter on the menu and did not check the price.
Ten days later, Ethan appeared at my apartment with a supplemental agreement.
He looked past me into the living room as if the modest sofa and secondhand dining table offended him.
“How did you get this address?” I asked.
“I had someone find it.”
“That is not comforting.”
His eyes dropped to my stomach.
At seventeen weeks, an oversized sweatshirt could no longer hide everything.
He knew.
