Chapter 2 - “What estate?”
He stared through the windshield.
“My family structure is complicated.”
“That might be the least surprising thing you’ve ever said.”
“Some trusts were created before we married.”
“Fine.”
“Some were amended afterward.”
My unease returned.
“Dorian.”
He looked at me.
“Your name appears in several of them.”
“What?”
“As my wife.”
“You never told me.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“What do they contain?”
“Property. Shares. Beneficial interests.”
“How much?”
He hesitated.
That was answer enough.
I laughed softly in disbelief.
“Of course. I’m apparently getting divorced from assets I didn’t know I had.”
“That is one reason I want independent counsel involved.”
“One reason?”
“Yes.”
“There are more?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Take me home.”
He did.
My apartment was on the fourth floor of a restored brick building in Lincoln Park, small enough that the kitchen and living room shared a wall and expensive enough that I had pretended not to notice the price when I signed the lease.
Dorian had never been inside.
He stood in the hallway while I unlocked the door.
“You don’t need to come in.”
“I know.”
I turned.
“What happens now?”
“With the divorce?”
“With everything.”
He thought about it.
“You decide what you need from me.”
That answer was so reasonable I almost distrusted it.
“And if I say I need nothing?”
“Then I’ll respect it.”
“Really?”
His gaze held mine.
“I’m going to learn how.”
I went inside and closed the door.
For ten minutes, I stood against it.
Then I cried.
Not because I was pregnant.
Not because I was getting divorced.
Not even because Dorian still loved me.
I cried because somewhere beneath six months of anger, I could feel the first dangerous movement of hope.
And I did not trust hope anymore.
The next morning, someone knocked at nine.
I assumed it was a delivery.
It was Eleanor Cross.
She stood in the hallway wearing a camel coat, sensible boots and a burgundy scarf, holding a paper grocery bag.
I stared at her.
She raised one silver eyebrow.
“Are you going to make a sixty-two-year-old woman stand in a hallway with soup?”
“You drove down from Lake Geneva?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my son is emotionally incompetent.”
I stepped aside.
“Come in.”
She handed me the bag.
“Chicken and rice. Ginger crackers. Apples. Your husband informed me coffee is currently the enemy.”
“Your son informed you a lot.”
“Not nearly enough.”
She took off her coat and looked around.
“This is nice.”
“It’s temporary.”
Eleanor turned.
“Is it?”
The question made me uncomfortable.
“I haven’t decided anything.”
“Good.”
I folded my arms.
“You think I should stay married to him.”
“No.”
That was not what I expected.
Eleanor sat at the tiny dining table.
“I think you should decide what kind of life you want. If Dorian fits honestly into that life, keep him. If he doesn’t, don’t.”
“You make him sound like furniture.”
“Furniture is generally easier to communicate with.”
I laughed despite myself.
Eleanor’s expression softened.
“There. Better.”
She unpacked the groceries.
I watched her.
“What happened to him six months ago?”
Her hands paused over the soup container.
“Ask Dorian.”
“I have.”
“Ask him again.”
“That sounds like a family tradition.”
She sighed.
“He told me some things in confidence.”
“I’m his wife.”
“And that is exactly why he should tell you himself.”
I sat opposite her.
“Then answer one question.”
“If I can.”
“Did he stop loving me?”
“No.”
No hesitation.
“Did he want the divorce?”
Eleanor looked down.
“That question is harder.”
“Why?”
“Because sometimes people want the consequence of a decision without wanting the loss that comes with it.”
I thought about that.
“He thought divorce would solve something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Her eyes came back to mine.
“Fear.”
The word chilled me.
“Fear of what?”
“Becoming his father.”
I stopped breathing.
Eleanor leaned back.
“Dorian’s father was not an easy man. He believed providing money excused every emotional absence. He kept secrets because he considered secrecy a form of protection.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Yes.”
Sadness entered her face.
“And that is the irony my son has been too proud to see.”
Over the next week, Dorian followed my rules.
I created them mostly to see whether he would.
No appearing without calling.
No security outside my apartment unless there was an actual reason.
No sending assistants to manage my schedule.
No discussing reconciliation until I had spoken to an attorney.
No decisions about the pregnancy without me.
He agreed to every one.
More astonishingly, he kept them.
He texted once each morning.
How are you feeling?
Sometimes I answered.
Sometimes I didn’t.
He never sent a second message.
On Friday, I met with an attorney recommended by Dr. Mercer’s office, a woman named Priya Shah who had no relationship with Cross Holdings.
She reviewed the divorce documents, financial disclosures and trust information for two hours.
Then she removed her glasses.
“Your husband has been unusually generous.”
“I don’t want generous. I want fair.”
“So do I.”
“Is it fair?”
She tapped the papers.
“More than fair. If this divorce were finalized under these terms, you would receive the apartment property he purchased before your marriage, a significant cash settlement, your existing personal assets, and permanent beneficial interests in two family trusts.”
I frowned.
“What apartment property?”
Priya looked at me.
“The building you’re living in.”
My pulse stumbled.
“No. I rent my apartment.”
She turned the document around.
“The building is owned by Lakeside Residential Partners.”
“Yes.”
“Which is wholly owned by a Cross family trust.”
I stared at the page.
Dorian owned my building.
A slow, furious realization spread through me.
“He put me here.”
“It appears the building was acquired seven years ago, long before you moved in.”
That reduced my anger slightly.
Only slightly.
“So he didn’t buy it for me.”
“No.”
“Did he choose my apartment?”
“That I can’t tell you.”
I left Priya’s office and called him from the sidewalk.
He answered immediately.
“Alina?”
“Did you arrange my apartment?”
Silence.
“Dorian.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why?”
“Because you asked me not to interfere.”
“That is interference.”
“Yes.”
“Why that building?”
“It has excellent management. Secure entrances. The units are well maintained.”
“You could have recommended it.”
“You wouldn’t have taken the recommendation.”
“Correct.”
“So you manipulated the rental listings?”
“No.”
I paused.
“What?”
“You found the listing yourself. After you applied, the property manager recognized your name.”
“And called you.”
“Yes.”
“And you told them to approve me.”
“They were already going to.”
“Dorian.”
“I told them not to give you special treatment.”
“Except you knew where I was.”
“Yes.”
“Which made you feel better.”
“Yes.”
His willingness to admit it stole half my prepared speech.
“I don’t like it.”
“I understand.”
“Sell the building.”
He was silent.
I had said it impulsively.
Then he answered, “All right.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“What?”
“I’ll tell management to begin exploring a sale.”
“You would sell a whole building because I’m uncomfortable?”
“No. I’ll sell a building because you just told me that my ownership makes your home feel less like yours.”
I had nothing to say.
He continued.
“You should have one place where my decisions don’t reach you.”
The cold Chicago air stung my face.
“Who are you becoming?”
“I’m trying to remember who I was before I became afraid.”
There was that word again.
Fear.
That evening, I drove to the house.
Not because he asked.
Because I was done letting other people tell me fragments of my own marriage.
Dorian opened the door himself.
He had removed his tie. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms.
For one impossible second, it looked like any ordinary evening from years earlier.
Then we remembered who we were.
“You came.”
“I want the truth.”
He stepped aside.
I walked into the home we had bought together two years after our wedding.
Nothing had changed.
The blue vase I chose in Charleston.
The ridiculous brass lamp Dorian claimed to hate but never let me replace.
My books still lined one wall of the library.
May you like
On the coffee table sat the unfinished mystery novel I had left behind when I moved out.
I touched it.
