“Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be. I have a lunch reservation at Le Bernardine.” A lunch reservation. He was ending our decade long marriage and was worried about missing the appetizer course. I looked up at him. He was handsome in that polished expensive way that money can buy but character cannot earn.
His suit was Italian, tailored to perfection, hiding the softness of a man who had never done a hard day’s labor in his life. And the settlement check is right there. Lorraine chimed in, adjusting the oversized pearls at her throat. Her voice was like scraping a diamond against a chalkboard. Sharp, expensive, and irritating. $5 million.
It is more than a girl of your background could ever dream of. Consider it a severance package for a job done adequately. Adequately. I had taken their family business from the brink of bankruptcy to a valuation of $200 million, and she called it adequate. But I didn’t say that. Not yet. I picked up the pen.
It felt heavy, cold. I looked at Preston one last time, searching for a flicker of regret, a shadow of the man I thought I loved. I saw nothing but impatience and a hidden gleam of excitement. He was thinking about her. Tiffany, the 24year-old Instagram model waiting for him in the lobby, carrying the air I had failed to provide.
I pressed the pen to the paper. The scratch of the nib was the only sound in the room. Meredith Vance, I didn’t sign it, Clay. I was done with that name. I was done with the lies. There, I said, sliding the papers across the table. It’s done. Preston snatched the papers up, scanning the signature as if he expected me to trick him.
A wide, relieved grin broke across his face. Finally, you know, Meredith, no hard feelings. We just outgrew each other. You’re a great housekeeper. Really, I need a partner who can keep up with my lifestyle. And well, someone who can give the Clay family a future. The dig about my infertility was subtle, but it landed exactly where he intended.
a sharp pain in my chest, familiar and dull. But today, the pain was different. It wasn’t a wound, it was fuel. “Goodbye, Preston.” “Goodbye, Lorraine,” I said, standing up. “I didn’t touch the $5 million check sitting on the table.” “You’re leaving the money?” Lorraine asked, her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline.
“Don’t try to play the martyr, dear. You’ll be back for it when reality sets in. Keep it, I said softly. You’re going to need it. I turned and walked out of the courtroom. My heels clicked rhythmically on the marble floor. Click clack click clack. Like a countdown, I pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped out into the blinding New York sunlight.
