Richard ignores his lawyer and stares directly at me, his eyes dark with something I can’t quite identify. Guilt? Anger? “Claire… why the hell didn’t you call me when he was born?”
I blink once. Slowly. Deliberately. “Because, Richard, when my water broke in the middle of the night, you were in a five-star suite in St. Barts. With her.”
Rebecca flinches as if I had struck her.
Richard’s gaze drops to the mahogany table. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I was in a closed-door strategy session.”
“You posted a photo of champagne on a yacht two hours later.”
The silence returns, heavier and more suffocating this time. Richard’s eyes dart frantically toward Rebecca, trying to gauge the blast radius, before snapping back to me. “You could have routed the call through my executive assistant.”
I lean forward, the leather of my chair creaking. “My amniotic sac ruptured at 2:13 a.m., Richard. I was violently throwing up from the pain. I was not particularly interested in coordinating with your corporate calendar.”
David Harrow neatly caps his pen. “I believe the air is sufficiently cleared. Shall we proceed to the asset division?”
Fabian Crane clears his throat, clearly rattled, and slides a thick, bound document across the glass. “Mr. Montgomery is prepared to offer a highly generous lump-sum payment to expedite this process.”
I let the words wash over me. It is a massive sum for an ordinary person. But when you are sitting across from a man who owns commercial skyscrapers in London, a fleet of private aircraft, and an inherited family trust that eclipses the GDP of small island nations, ‘generous’ is a relative term.
He offers me the Brooklyn apartment for two years. He offers health insurance for Leo until age eighteen. He offers a monthly child support figure that is insulting when compared to his actual, untaxed capital gains. No admission of fault. Complete surrender of any claim to the businesses we built together. And a draconian non-disclosure agreement designed to gag me for life, ensuring his pristine public image remains untouched by his private sins.
I listen to Fabian drone on. When he finally finishes, looking rather pleased with himself, I nod toward David.
David doesn’t even bother opening the binder. He simply pushes it back across the table with one finger. “My client outright rejects this proposal.”
Richard sits up straight. “Claire, be reasonable.”
David holds up a hand, silencing him. “Ms. Evans demands full, uncapped child support strictly calculated against Mr. Montgomery’s verified total annual yield, including offshore holding companies, not merely his reported domestic W-2 salary. She requires permanent, deeded housing security for the child, fully funded educational trusts, and a fifty-percent liquidation of all marital assets accumulated during the thirty-six months of legal marriage.”
Fabian scoffs, shaking his head. “That is entirely excessive. We will never agree to that.”
David flips open his own black folder. “Furthermore, Ms. Evans outright rejects the confidentiality clause unless Mr. Montgomery executes a reciprocal, legally binding non-disparagement agreement that explicitly extends to third-party agents, corporate publicists, family offices, and…” David pauses, his eyes flicking toward the mistress, “…romantic partners.”
Rebecca goes rigid.
“We are also filing an immediate motion for forensic accounting,” David adds softly.
A microscopic twitch betrays Richard. I lived with the man; I know his tells. The mention of forensic accounting is the equivalent of a loaded gun pointed at his chest.
“There is absolutely no need to drag independent auditors into this,” Fabian counters rapidly, a little too desperately.
“There is every need,” I say, my voice slicing through the room.
Richard leans halfway across the table, abandoning all pretense of legal detachment. “Claire. Do not turn this ugly.”
I look at him. Don’t turn this ugly. The universal battle cry of a man who set his own house on fire and is now furious that his wife brought a fire extinguisher.
“It became ugly, Richard, the second you paraded your mistress into a legal proceeding eleven days after I had my body sliced open to deliver your son.”
Rebecca finally stands up. Her hands are shaking violently. She looks at Richard, waiting for him to defend her, to beg her to stay. He doesn’t even look at her. He is too busy glaring at me.
“Actually,” Rebecca says, her voice thick with tears she refuses to shed. “I need to leave.”
“Rebecca, sit down,” Richard barks, the mask slipping completely.
She stares at him with wet, furious, devastated eyes. “You swore to me you were trapped in a loveless, dead marriage. You swore she refused to let you go. You promised me there was no baby, just a desperate woman making threats. I sat beside you today because I believed you were the victim.” Her eyes drop to Leo, who is still sleeping peacefully. Her voice shatters. “You lied to me, too.”
She turns on her heel and practically runs out of the room. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind her, echoing like a gunshot.
Richard stares at the closed door, his chest heaving. He is bleeding out on two fronts, losing control of both women in his life simultaneously.
