The phone’s harsh ring cut through the peaceful silence of my corner office on the thirty-fifth floor. I glanced at the caller ID, surprised to see Richard’s name flashing across the screen at ten-thirty in the morning. My husband rarely called during work hours, especially not when he knew I was preparing for a major corporate merger case.
Something was wrong. The moment I heard his voice, cold, distant, almost mechanical, I felt a chill run down my spine, the kind of premonition that makes your stomach clench before the bad news even arrives. Alexandra, this isn’t working anymore.
I want a divorce, he said without preamble, without even a hello. Thirteen years of marriage dismissed in eight words, delivered with all the emotion of someone ordering coffee. I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white as I tried to process what I was hearing.
The Manhattan skyline stretched out beyond my office window, unchanged, indifferent to the fact that my world was crumbling. Richard, what are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke? My voice sounded strange to my own ears, too high, too breathless. I stood up, nearly knocking over the crystal paperweight he’d given me for our tenth anniversary.
It caught the morning light, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the stacks of legal briefs on my mahogany desk. It’s not a joke, Alexandra. I’ve already moved most of my things out.
Martin Goldstein will handle the details from here. Don’t try to contact me directly. All communication goes through him.
The finality in his voice stunned me. There was no room for discussion, no explanation offered. You can’t just end our marriage over the phone.
Richard, we need to talk about this face-to-face, I pleaded, hating the desperation creeping into my voice. I was Alexandra Montgomery, the attorney who made corporate executives squirm during depositions. I didn’t beg, yet here I was, clutching the phone like a lifeline.
There’s nothing to discuss. I’ve made my decision. A brief pause.
Then, You’ve changed, Alexandra. We both have. It’s better this way.
The line went dead before I could respond, leaving me standing there, staring at my reflection in the window glass. A successful woman in a tailored suit, looking utterly lost. My assistant Sarah’s concerned face appeared at my door.
Alex? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. She’d been with me for six years, long enough to read the subtle shifts in my expression. I motioned for her to close the door.
Richard just called. He wants a divorce. Saying the words out loud made them more real, more painful.
Sarah’s eyes widened in shock. What? Why? You two seemed fine at the firm’s Christmas party last month. She crossed the room and took the seat across from my desk.
I sank back into my leather chair, feeling suddenly exhausted. Apparently not. I massaged my temples, trying to make sense of it all.
He told me not to contact him. Said everything needs to go through his lawyer, Martin Goldstein. Sarah’s expression shifted from shock to indignation.
Goldstein? That shark from Perkins and Gray? Richard’s planning to play hardball right out of the gate? She leaned forward. Alex, you need to take this seriously. Goldstein doesn’t mess around.
I nodded, my mind already shifting gears. Years of legal training kicking in despite the emotional earthquake. I know exactly who Martin Goldstein is.
He’s represented three of Richard’s restaurant acquisitions. A thought struck me. But he’s never handled a divorce case as far as I know.
He’s strictly corporate. Maybe Richard thinks having a corporate attorney will intimidate you into accepting whatever terms they offer. Sarah suggested, her loyalty evident in the fierce protectiveness of her tone.
Perhaps. I opened my laptop, typing quickly. Or maybe Richard doesn’t realize that his wife has spent the last decade becoming one of the top contract attorneys in this city.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. When we first met, I was a 20-year-old receptionist at an advertising agency where Richard’s restaurant was a client. He was 31, already successful, confident, and utterly charming.
I had been dazzled by him, by the world he introduced me to. I remembered how proud he’d been when I decided to go to law school, how he’d boasted to his friends about his brilliant wife. My Alexandra is going to be a force to be reckoned with, he’d say, his arm around my waist.
Apparently, he hadn’t considered what that might mean if we ever ended up on opposite sides. I’m going to need to clear my calendar for the next few days, I told Sarah, already mentally reorganizing my caseload. Call Thomas and see if he can take the lead on the Westlake merger.
And find out everything you can about Richard’s recent activities, business transactions, travel records, anything unusual in the last six months. Sarah nodded, already making notes. What about your meeting with the Clayton Industries Board this afternoon? Reschedule.
Family emergency. The words tasted bitter. And Sarah? Not a word about this to anyone in the office yet.
After she left, I sat motionless, staring at the framed photo on my desk. Richard and me on our tenth anniversary trip to Bali, both of us smiling on a pristine beach. I tried to reconcile that image with the cold voice on the phone this morning.
What had changed? When had it changed? I thought back over the past few months, searching for warning signs I might have missed. There had been subtle shifts. More late nights at the office for both of us.
Fewer shared meals. Conversations that stayed on the surface of our lives, rather than delving deeper. But nothing that screamed impending divorce.
Richard had seemed more distant lately, yes. But I’d attributed that to stress over the opening of his newest restaurant location. I pulled up our shared calendar on my phone, scrolling back through the last six months.
Richard’s business trips had increased from the usual once a month to nearly every other weekend. There were dinner meetings that ran unusually late. Gym sessions at odd hours.
Looking at the pattern now, with fresh eyes, it was obvious. The realization hit me like a physical blow. Richard was seeing someone else.
The tears came then, hot and unexpected. I hadn’t cried in years, not since my father’s funeral. I allowed myself exactly five minutes, setting the timer on my phone.
Five minutes to feel the hurt, the betrayal, the humiliation. Then I dried my eyes, reapplied my makeup, and did what I’d been trained to do. I started gathering information.
By noon, I had accessed our joint accounts and discovered several interesting charges. Hotel rooms in the city. Why would he need a hotel when we had a penthouse fifteen minutes away? Expensive jewelry purchases from Tiffany that I’d never received.
Dinners at intimate restaurants on nights he’d told me he was working late. The evidence mounted, each new discovery like another cut. The most damning proof came when I checked our cell phone account.
Richard had a second line I didn’t recognize, with hundreds of texts and calls to the same number. I couldn’t access the content of the messages. I wasn’t that kind of lawyer, but the pattern was clear enough.
I was about to call Goldstein’s office when my phone pinged with an email notification. It was from Martin Goldstein himself, requesting a meeting tomorrow afternoon to discuss the terms of your separation agreement. Attached was a document outlining a proposed settlement that made my blood boil.
Richard was offering me our city apartment and a modest monthly alimony for five years. In exchange, I would relinquish all claims to his business holdings, which constituted the vast majority of our marital assets. It was insulting.
Not just financially, but personally. After thirteen years, after I’d supported him through the early struggles of his business, after I’d helped review every contract for his restaurant expansions, this was what he thought I deserved. I smiled for the first time that day.
A dangerous smile that would have warned anyone who knew me well to tread carefully. Richard had forgotten something crucial. Before becoming his wife, I’d signed a prenuptial agreement.
An agreement that I, as a naive twenty-year-old, hadn’t fully understood. But one that I, as a thirty-three-year-old contract attorney now knew, contained a very interesting infidelity clause. I replied to Goldstein’s email, accepting the meeting but suggesting his office rather than the neutral location he’d proposed.
Then I began my own preparations, starting with a call to our bank to freeze the transfers Richard had initiated that morning from our joint investment account. That evening, I returned to our penthouse for the first time since Richard’s call. The space felt different now.
Emptier, despite the minimal evidence of Richard’s departure. His favorite watch was missing from the bedside table. Some clothes gone from the closet.
His laptop no longer on his desk. But he’d left most of his possessions, confident, perhaps, that he’d be returning for them soon. I walked through each room slowly, seeing our shared life with new eyes.
Photos from vacations and celebrations lined the hallway. Visual markers of a relationship I thought would last forever. Had he been unhappy all this time? Or was this something new? A midlife crisis wrapped in the fresh excitement of a younger woman? In his home office, I found what I was looking for.
A small safe hidden behind a painting. Its combination unchanged from the day we’d bought it. The date we met.
Inside were various documents, including our prenuptial agreement. I removed it carefully, sat at his desk, and began to read. The language was formal, legalistic, but the relevant clause was clear.
In the event that either party engages in provable infidelity, the aggrieved spouse shall be entitled to 50% of the offending spouse’s business assets acquired during the marriage, in addition to standard division of marital property. Richard had insisted on this clause, convinced that a young wife would eventually stray. The memory of his patronizing smile as he’d explained it made anger flare hot in my chest.
It’s just protection, Alexandra, for both of us. But we both knew it had been about his insecurity. His fear that a 20-year-old would eventually be tempted by someone her own age.
The irony was almost poetic. The very clause he’d created to protect himself would now be his undoing. I slept in the guest room that night, unable to face our bed.
Before turning out the light, I sent a text to the mystery number from Richard’s secret phone. We need to talk about Richard. Then I switched off my phone and slept more soundly than I had any right to.
The next morning, I dressed with deliberate care. A sharp charcoal suit that Richard had always said made me look intimidating. Emerald earrings that matched my eyes, my grandmother’s vintage watch for luck.
I gathered the documents I’d need, including the prenuptial agreement and evidence of Richard’s affair, and placed them in my briefcase. Then I headed to Martin Goldstein’s office, ready for the confrontation that would determine my future. Goldstein’s assistant looked surprised when I gave my name.
Oh, Mrs. Montgomery, we weren’t expecting you until three this afternoon. I decided to come early. I said, with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes, Is Martin available now? It’s rather urgent.
She hesitated, then picked up her phone, murmuring into it too quietly for me to hear. After a moment, she nodded. He can see you now.
Follow me, please. As I walked into Martin Goldstein’s corner office, I saw him rising from behind his desk, hand extended in greeting. He was a small man with wire-rimmed glasses and a reputation for ruthlessness that belied his mild appearance.
Mrs. Montgomery, I presume? I’m Martin Goldstein. His tone was professional, but tinged with something like pity. Yes, I’m the wife, I confirmed, setting my briefcase on his desk with a decisive click.
The moment I spoke those words, something shifted in Goldstein’s expression. He paled slightly, his extended hand frozen in midair as recognition dawned. You’re Alexandra Montgomery, from Montgomery and Jenkins.
His voice had changed, the confidence replaced by uncertainty. I smiled, extending my own hand now. That’s right.
I believe you and I negotiated opposite sides of the Eastbrook Plaza development last year. Small world, isn’t it? Martin Goldstein, one of the most feared corporate attorneys in the city, visibly swallowed. His hand trembled slightly as he shook mine, and I knew in that moment that I had the upper hand.
Richard had made a critical error. He’d forgotten that his wife wasn’t just any woman. She was an attorney who specialized in the very contracts he was trying to use against her.
Goldstein gestured for me to take a seat, his movements stiff as he returned to his own chair. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind him showcased the Manhattan skyline, but his view today was of a woman he suddenly realized was not the pushover client he’d anticipated. I must say, Mrs. Montgomery.
Ms. Montgomery will do, I interrupted, keeping my tone pleasant, but firm. Or Alexandra, if you prefer. We’re colleagues, after all.
He nodded, recalibrating. Alexandra, then. This is unexpected.
Richard didn’t mention your professional standing. I imagine there are many things Richard failed to mention. I opened my briefcase and removed a folder, placing it carefully on the polished surface of his desk, including the precise terms of our prenuptial agreement.
Goldstein’s expression remained carefully neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. I have a copy of the agreement here, he said, tapping a blue folder to his right. I’m sure you do, but I wonder if Richard directed your attention to Section 7, Paragraph 3. I slid my copy across the desk, opened to the relevant page, with the infidelity clause highlighted in bright yellow.
As Goldstein read, I watched his face cycle through confusion, realization, and finally, alarm. He looked up at me, then back down at the document, as though hoping the words might have changed in the interim. This is… quite specific, he said finally.
Yes, it is. Richard was very insistent about that clause when we married. He was concerned that a young wife might be tempted to stray.
I smiled thinly. Ironic, isn’t it? Goldstein removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Alexandra, I’m sure we can come to a reasonable arrangement without invoking… I’ve brought evidence.
I cut in smoothly, placing a second folder on the desk. Credit card statements? Hotel receipts? Phone records? And this morning, I received a very interesting text response from a number that has been communicating with my husband quite regularly. I took out my phone and placed it face up on the desk, displaying the message that had greeted me when I woke up.
Who is this? Richard gave me this number to contact him. I’m Brittany. Goldstein stared at the phone, then at the evidence folder, his expression growing increasingly troubled.
Perhaps we should reschedule this meeting. I need to consult with my client. By all means, I said, reclaiming my phone but leaving the folders.
I’ll wait. That’s not necessary. I can call you when… I’ll wait, I repeated, more firmly this time.
I settled back in my chair, crossing my legs. This won’t take long. Goldstein hesitated, then nodded curtly and picked up his phone.
He turned slightly away from me as he dialed, but I could still hear his side of the conversation. Richard, we need to talk. Now.
A pause. No, it can’t wait. Another pause, longer this time.
Your wife is here. Yes, in my office. He listened for a moment, his expression darkening.
Richard, did you ever actually read your prenuptial agreement? The one you insisted on? The response must have been negative, because Goldstein closed his eyes briefly. There’s an infidelity clause. 50% of business assets acquired during marriage.
Even from across the desk, I could hear Richard’s explosive reaction. Goldstein held the phone away from his ear for a moment before responding. Yes, she has evidence.
Quite a lot of it, from what I can see. Another pause. That’s not how this works, Richard.
You can’t just… He frowned. She’s a contracts attorney. Did you know that? A longer silence.
I see. Well, that complicates things significantly. When he finally hung up, Goldstein looked at me with something approaching respect.
Richard is on his way. He’d like to discuss this. Privately.
I’m sure he would. I reclaimed my evidence folders and returned them to my briefcase. Unfortunately for him, that’s not how this works anymore.
All communication goes through you, remember? His words, not mine. Alexandra, be reasonable. Thirteen years of marriage deserves a conversation, at least.
Thirteen years of marriage deserved better than a phone call ending it. I countered, feeling a flash of the hurt I’d suppressed beneath my professional demeanor. Richard made his choice.
Now he can live with the consequences. We sat in uncomfortable silence for nearly twenty minutes before Richard burst through the door, his normally perfect appearance slightly disheveled. He stopped short when he saw me, as though surprised to find me actually there.
His eyes, the warm brown that had once made my heart race, were cold and wary now. Alexandra, just my name, flat and emotionless. Richard.
I remained seated, refusing to be rattled by his presence. He turned to Goldstein. Give us the room.
The attorney looked relieved to escape and quickly gathered some papers. I’ll be in the conference room when you’re ready. Once we were alone, Richard paced to the window, his back to me.
This is low, even for an attorney, using a technicality to try to take half my business. A technicality? I repeated, incredulous. You mean the clause that you insisted on? The one designed to protect you from me? He turned, his expression hard.
That was different. How? Because you never imagined I’d be the one enforcing it? I leaned forward. Or because you didn’t think I’d find out about Brittany? His eyes widened slightly at the name, confirming what I already knew.
How did you… It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you broke our contract, Richard. Both the marriage and the legal agreement that came with it.
He ran a hand through his silver-streaked dark hair. A gesture so familiar, it made my chest ache despite everything. Look, I know this is a shock.
I handled it badly. But we can be reasonable about this. Reasonable, I echoed.
Like serving divorce papers through your attorney? Or emptying our joint investment account without discussion? That kind of reasonable? I was angry, he admitted, moving to sit in Goldstein’s chair. You’ve been so focused on your career these past few years. Always working late, always distracted.
We barely talk anymore. I stared at him, stunned by the hypocrisy. Are you seriously trying to blame me for your affair? It’s not that simple.
He leaned forward, his expression softening into the charming smile that had once made me weak at the knees. Alex, honey, we’ve grown apart. These things happen.
But we can end this amicably. The settlement offer is generous. Generous? I cut him off, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm.
Twenty percent of what I’m legally entitled to is not generous, Richard. It’s insulting. The prenup was never meant to be used like this, he argued, frustration bleeding into his tone.
It was just a formality. Then you shouldn’t have insisted on it. I stood, gathering my briefcase.
Or you shouldn’t have cheated. Either way, we’re beyond negotiating directly. As you said, all communication through the attorneys from now on.
Richard stood too, his height allowing him to tower over me. An intimidation tactic he’d used in the past when arguments weren’t going his way. Don’t do this, Alexandra.
You’ll regret it. I held my ground, looking up at him steadily. No, Richard.
You’ll regret assuming I was still that naive twenty-year-old who didn’t understand what she was signing. As I turned to leave, he grabbed my arm. Wait, just wait.
His voice had lost its edge, sounding almost pleading. What do you want? Just tell me what you want, and we can make this go away. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to imagine saying what I truly wanted.
For none of this to be happening. For the man I’d loved for thirteen years not to have betrayed me. For the life we’d built together not to be crumbling.
But that wasn’t possible anymore. I want what I’m entitled to under the agreement you created. I said instead, gently removing his hand from my arm.
Fifty percent of the business assets acquired during our marriage, and an equitable division of our personal property. That would cripple the restaurant group, he protested. We’re in the middle of an expansion.
The new locations in Chicago and Boston should have been considerations before you decided to sleep with a twenty-two-year-old hostess. I finished for him, watching his face pale at the accuracy of my information. How did you think this would end, Richard? Did you really believe I’d just accept whatever scraps you offered and disappear quietly? The door opened before he could respond, and Goldstein returned, looking uncomfortable.
I thought I heard raised voices. Is everything all right? Perfect timing, I said, moving toward the door. We’re finished here.
Richard has some decisions to make, and I have a deposition at two o’clock. I paused at the threshold. I’ll expect a revised settlement offer by the end of the week, Mr. Goldstein.
One that reflects the terms of our prenuptial agreement in full. I left without looking back, maintaining my composure until I reached the privacy of the elevator. Only then did I allow my shoulders to slump, my carefully constructed facade cracking under the weight of what had just transpired.
The Richard I thought I knew, the man who had encouraged my education, celebrated my successes, built a life with me, was gone, if he had ever existed at all. My phone buzzed with a text from Sarah. How did it go? Do you need backup? I smiled faintly at her loyalty.
Meeting over. Coming back to the office. We’ll fill you in.
When I returned to my firm, I found Thomas Jenkins waiting in my office, his distinguished face creased with concern. In his late fifties, Thomas had been my mentor since law school, the one who had encouraged me to specialize in contract law and had eventually made me partner at his firm. Sarah told me what happened.
He said, rising as I entered, I’m so sorry, Alexandra. I set down my briefcase and sank into my chair, suddenly exhausted. Thank you.
It’s been an educational 24 hours. Do you need representation? I know someone excellent in family law. I can handle it.
I interrupted, then softened my tone. But thank you. I appreciate the offer.
Thomas studied me for a moment. This isn’t just another case, Alex. It’s your marriage, your life.
Having emotional distance might be beneficial. I shook my head. Richard made this about business when he tried to cheat me out of what I’m entitled to.
I won’t let personal feelings interfere with getting a fair settlement. And after? Thomas asked gently. When the papers are signed and the assets divided? What then? It was a question I hadn’t allowed myself to consider yet.
After 13 years with Richard, who was I on my own? What would my life look like without him in it? I don’t know, I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty. I guess I’ll figure that out when I get there. Thomas nodded, patting my shoulder as he stood to leave.
You’re stronger than you think, Alexandra. You always have been. At the door, he paused.
Take the rest of the day. The Westlake merger can wait. Once alone, I found myself staring at the wedding photo on my desk, the one I’d kept there as a reminder of where I’d come from, and the person who had believed in me when I was just starting out.
I picked it up, tracing Richard’s smiling face with my finger. Had he ever really loved me? Or had I simply been a young, impressionable trophy to display at business functions? My thoughts were interrupted by another text message, this one from an unknown number. This is Brittany.
Can we meet? There’s something you should know about Richard. I stared at the message, my heart pounding. This was Richard’s mistress, the woman who had helped destroy my marriage, reaching out directly.
My first instinct was to ignore it. What could she possibly have to say that I would want to hear? But the lawyer in me recognized potential information, leverage I might need. After a long moment, I typed back.
The Atrium Cafe. Tomorrow. Noon.
That night, I returned to our penthouse and began the painful process of separating my life from Richard’s. I moved his remaining clothes to the guest room, deleted our shared playlists, and removed his emergency contact information from my phone. Each action was like cutting a thread that had connected us, leaving me feeling both lighter and somehow unmoored.
In the home office, I found a photo that made me pause. Richard and me at the opening of his first upscale restaurant, Montague’s, named after a combination of our surnames. I was beaming with pride, my arm around his waist as he cut the ceremonial ribbon.
That night, he’d toasted me in front of everyone. To my brilliant wife, without whom none of this would be possible. Seats.
The restaurant had thrived, expanding into a group that now included eight locations across three states. And I had been there for every step, reviewing contracts, helping with business plans, even suggesting the farm-to-table concept that had become their signature style. In many ways, the success of Richard’s business was partly my achievement, too.
I set the photo down, a new resolution forming. This divorce wouldn’t just be about getting what I was legally entitled to. It would be about acknowledging my contributions to the life and business we had built together.
Richard might have forgotten those contributions, but I would make sure the settlement reflected them. The next morning, I dressed carefully for my meeting with Brittany, choosing a simple but expensive cream blouse and tailored pants, rather than my usual power suit. This wasn’t a business meeting or a legal confrontation.
It was something more complicated. I arrived at the Atrium Cafe ten minutes early, selecting a quiet table in the corner with a view of the entrance. At precisely noon, a young woman walked in, glancing around nervously.
She was stunning, tall, blonde, with the kind of effortless beauty that turned heads. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, exactly the age I had been when I met Richard. Our eyes met across the cafe, and I saw recognition flash in hers.
She straightened her shoulders and walked toward me, her confidence seemingly returning with each step. Alexandra? she asked, her voice higher and softer than I had imagined. Brittany? I acknowledged, gesturing to the seat across from me.
Please, sit down. She slid into the chair, fidgeting with the strap of her designer handbag, a recent Prada that I recognized from the collection Richard had bought me for Christmas. The same Christmas, he had apparently been cultivating a relationship with this girl.
Thank you for meeting me, she began, her eyes, a clear, bright blue, meeting mine directly. I know this must be… weird. That’s one word for it, I agreed, keeping my tone neutral.
You said there was something I should know about Richard. Brittany took a deep breath. He’s been lying to you, but he’s been lying to me too.
She opened her purse and removed a small stack of papers, placing them on the table between us. He told me you two were already separated, that you had agreed to divorce months ago, but were keeping it quiet for business reasons. I felt a fresh wave of anger at Richard’s manipulation, but kept my expression controlled.
When did this start? Between you two? Six months ago, I was hostessing at the Boston location during the opening. Richard was there for two weeks, overseeing everything. Her cheeks flushed slightly.
He was charming, attentive, made me feel special, said I had potential to move up in the company. The timeline aligned with the changes I’d noticed in Richard’s behavior, and you believed him? About us being separated? She nodded, looking down at her hands. He even showed me papers.
What he said were preliminary divorce documents you’d both signed. She pushed the stack toward me. These.
I picked them up, recognizing immediately that they were drafts of business contracts with signature pages from old documents attached. A crude forgery that would never have held up to legal scrutiny, but enough to convince someone who wanted to believe. He brought me to New York three months ago, Brittany continued, set me up in an apartment, promised to help advance my modeling career.
Her voice hardened slightly, but then I started noticing things. He would never take me to certain restaurants, never introduced me to his close friends, always had excuses for why I couldn’t visit his home. Because we were still very much married, I finished for her, setting the papers down, and living together.
She nodded, blinking back tears. I found out the truth yesterday, after your text. I did some research, found articles about you and Richard together at events just months ago.
She looked up at me, her expression a mix of anger and shame. I feel so stupid. Despite everything, I felt a flicker of sympathy for her.
She was young, manipulated by a man twice her age with wealth and power. You’re not the first woman Richard has charmed, and probably not the last. There are others? Besides me? Her eyes widened in shock.
I shook my head. Not that I know of, but he charmed me the same way once, when I was about your age. Brittany’s gaze sharpened with interest.
You were my age when you met him? Twenty, I confirmed, signaling to the waiter for coffee. I hadn’t planned on having a real conversation with this woman, but something about her directness made me reconsider. I was working as a receptionist at an advertising agency that handled his first restaurant’s marketing.
Richard was thirty-one, already successful, confident, charming. Brittany finished with a small, knowing smile. Like, he’s the only person in the room who really sees you.
I nodded, surprised by how accurately she’d captured it. Exactly like that. The waiter arrived with my coffee, and Brittany ordered an iced tea.
When he left, she leaned forward. So, what happened? How did you go from receptionist to… She gestured vaguely at my designer watch, my tailored clothes, the obvious markers of success. Richard happened, in part, I admitted.
He encouraged me to go back to school, paid for my undergraduate degree, supported me through law school. He was proud of my accomplishments. I stirred my coffee, watching the dark liquid swirl.
At least, I thought he was. He talked about you sometimes, Brittany said quietly. Said you were brilliant, but that you’d grown cold, too focused on your career.
The words stung, even coming from her. And, I suppose he presented himself as the neglected husband? She nodded, looking embarrassed. He said you two hadn’t been intimate in over a year, that you were essentially roommates.
She twisted the paper wrapper from her straw between her fingers. I’m guessing that wasn’t true, either. No, I said simply, leaving it at that.
Some details of my marriage were still too private to share, especially with the woman who had been sleeping with my husband. Richard appears to have created convenient narratives for both of us. Our drinks arrived, creating a brief pause in the conversation.
I used the moment to study Brittany more carefully. She was beautiful, yes, but there was an intelligence in her eyes that suggested she was more than the stereotype of a young model being kept by a wealthy, older man. What do you want from this meeting, Brittany? I asked finally.
You said you had something to tell me about Richard, but it seems you’ve mostly confirmed what I already suspected. She straightened, setting her drink aside. I have texts, emails, receipts, everything documenting our relationship for the past six months.
I want you to have them. She reached into her purse and pulled out a USB drive, placing it on the table. He lied to both of us, used both of us.
I don’t want him to get away with it. I stared at the small device, understanding its value in my divorce proceedings. With this evidence, there would be no way for Richard to deny the affair or contest the prenuptial clause.
It was exactly what I needed, and yet I found myself hesitating. Why would you help me? You don’t know me. Brittany’s expression hardened.
Because yesterday, after I confronted him about still being married to you, he told me I was just a fun distraction and that I should be realistic about my position. Then he offered me money to disappear quietly. Her voice cracked slightly, like I was some problem to be handled.
Not a person he’d been telling he loved for months. The cold calculation sounded exactly like the Richard I’d seen in Goldstein’s office. Not the man I thought I’d married, but the one he’d apparently become or perhaps had always been beneath the charm.
I’m sorry, I said and meant it. You didn’t deserve that. She shrugged, attempting nonchalance but not quite succeeding.
I’ll be fine. I’m young, as he kept reminding me. But you and I both deserve better than his lies.
She pushed the USB drive closer to me. Take it. Use it.
Make him pay. I picked up the drive, turning it over in my fingers. Thank you.
This will help significantly with my case. Good. She took a sip of her tea, then asked, What happens now? With the divorce, I mean.
Now I negotiate from a position of strength, I explained, slipping the drive into my purse. With this evidence and the prenuptial agreement, Richard will have to agree to the terms I set forward. And those terms include half his business? Brittany asked, a hint of admiration in her voice.
Fifty percent of the business assets acquired during our marriage, I corrected, which includes the restaurant group, various real estate holdings, and several investment portfolios. She whistled softly. No wonder he looked terrified when I mentioned speaking to you.
He stands to lose a fortune. He should have thought of that before he decided to cheat, I said, more sharply than I intended. I softened my tone.
But this isn’t about punishment. It’s about getting what I legally deserve after 13 years of marriage and significant contributions to building those businesses. Brittany nodded, looking thoughtful.
For what it’s worth, I think you’re handling this with a lot more class than most people would. She hesitated, then added, he showed me pictures of you sometimes, from events and parties. You always looked so confident, so put together.
I was actually kind of intimidated by the idea of you. The comment startled a small laugh from me. Me? You’re young and beautiful.
If anyone should feel intimidated, it’s me. Beauty fades, she said with surprising wisdom. But what you’ve built for yourself, your career, your reputation, that’s real power.
She gathered her purse, preparing to leave. I should go. I have a modeling go-see across town.
What will you do now? I asked, genuinely curious about her plans. Move back to Boston, probably. My sister’s there.
Start over. She stood, smoothing her dress. Maybe go back to school.
I always wanted to study design. You should, I encouraged, remembering my own journey. It’s never too late to reinvent yourself.
She smiled, a genuine expression that transformed her face from merely beautiful to radiant. Thank you for meeting me, Alexandra. For what it’s worth, I think Richard made a huge mistake letting you go.
After she left, I sat alone with my coffee, processing the unexpected turn my morning had taken. I had come ready to face an adversary, perhaps even to unleash some of my anger on the woman who had been sleeping with my husband. Instead, I’d found another of Richard’s victims, different circumstances, but the same manipulation, the same lies.
I returned to the office to find three messages from Martin Goldstein waiting for me. Apparently, Richard had instructed him to schedule another meeting, this time with a different approach. Instead of the insulting initial offer, Richard was now proposing something closer to an equal division of our personal assets, though still protecting his business interests.
It wasn’t enough, and both of them knew it. I called Goldstein back immediately. I’ve acquired additional evidence confirming Richard’s infidelity.
I informed him without preamble, comprehensive documentation covering the past six months. I’m prepared to move forward with enforcing the prenuptial agreement in full, including the infidelity clause. There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
I see, Goldstein finally said. His tone resigned. Perhaps we should discuss potential settlement options before proceeding to court.
I think that would be wise. I agreed. I’ll have my terms drafted by tomorrow morning.
That evening, I began the process of truly reclaiming my life. I transferred my personal items from the penthouse to a luxury short-term rental I’d arranged in a different part of the city. I needed neutral space, somewhere without memories of Richard in every corner.
The new apartment was sleek and impersonal, exactly what I needed. After arranging my essential belongings, I sat at the pristine dining table with my laptop, drafting the settlement terms I would present to Goldstein. I worked methodically, ensuring every detail was precise, every claim justified by both the prenuptial agreement and state law.
By midnight, I had completed the document. It was fair but firm, claiming exactly what I was entitled to, without vindictiveness, but also without compromise. I would get 50% of the restaurant group, half of our real estate holdings, and an equitable division of our personal property.
Richard would retain enough to continue operating the business, but would need to include me as an equal partner in all future decisions affecting the company. As I prepared for bed in the unfamiliar apartment, I realized I felt something unexpected. Relief.
The marriage I had built my adult life around was ending. But somehow, I felt more like myself than I had in years. Without Richard’s larger-than-life presence, without the constant adjustment to his needs and schedule, I could finally hear my own thoughts, clearly, again.
The next three weeks passed in a blur of legal meetings, asset evaluations, and negotiations. Richard, faced with the irrefutable evidence of his affair and the binding language of the prenuptial agreement, had little choice but to accept my terms. Goldstein, to his credit, advised his client to settle rather than fight a losing battle in court.
The actual signing of the divorce papers was anticlimactic. Richard and I sat across from each other in a conference room at Goldstein’s firm. Neither of us speaking beyond the necessary formalities.
He looked tired. The confidence I had always associated with him diminished somehow. As we each signed our names to the document that would legally end our marriage, I caught him watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher.
Regret, perhaps. Or simple resignation. When it was done, we stood to leave.
At the door, Richard paused. Alexandra. Just my name.
Spoken softly. I turned, meeting his eyes one last time. Yes? I’m sorry.
He said, the words seeming to cost him something. Not for the divorce. That was probably inevitable.
But for how I handled it. You deserved better. I studied him.
This man I had loved for thirteen years. Trying to reconcile the charming young entrepreneur who had swept me off my feet with the calculating businessman who had tried to cheat me out of my fair share. And now this apparently contrite figure before me.
Yes. I agreed simply. I did.
As I walked out of the building into the bright spring afternoon, I felt as though I was stepping into a new chapter of my life. The divorce had been finalized. The assets divided.
The legal battles concluded. Now came the harder part. Figuring out who Alexandra Montgomery was on her own.
The answer began to take shape in the months that followed. With my share of the restaurant group, I established myself as an active board member, bringing my legal expertise to bear on the company’s expansion plans. Richard, initially resistant to my involvement, eventually came to value my input as the business continued to thrive despite our personal fallout.
My career at the law firm flourished. Thomas offered me the opportunity to head a new division specializing in hospitality industry contracts, leveraging my experience with the restaurant business. The work was challenging and satisfying, allowing me to build something that was entirely my own achievement.
On a personal level, I took time to rediscover interests I had neglected during my marriage. I joined a rowing club, something I’d enjoyed in my teens but had abandoned for lack of time. I took cooking classes, traveled to destinations Richard had never been interested in, and reconnected with friends I had lost touch with over the years.
