Nathan had received the proposed settlement that morning.
He printed two copies and placed one in front of me.
The document was thirty-seven pages long.
The first pages were filled with formal language about the marriage, the separation date, and the responsibilities each of us would have while the divorce proceeded.
The later pages were where Aaron’s lawyers had concentrated their attention.
I read slowly.
The proposal offered a financial settlement designed to close out any claims between us.
It included provisions concerning our joint accounts, personal belongings, household expenses, and the disposition of certain items purchased during the marriage.
It also contained language about confidentiality and public statements.
Then I reached the section concerning separate property.
I read it again.
“They want me to acknowledge that neither of us will pursue claims against the other’s separate assets,” I said.
“That sounds reasonable on its face,” Nathan replied. “But the surrounding language matters. We need to ensure that it does not create ambiguity about your investment holdings or the appreciation and distributions connected to them.”
I turned another page.
The proposal also asked me to confirm that I had no direct or indirect interest in Prescott Global.
I looked up.
“I don't.”
“Correct. But we should make sure the wording doesn't accidentally suggest that you are giving up a claim you never made, or that you are releasing a claim that might arise from something separate from your ownership.”
“I don't want the company.”
“Then we can say that clearly without agreeing to unnecessary language.”
I placed the document on the table.
“What about the confidentiality clause?”
Nathan tapped the paragraph with his pen.
“It is broader than I would recommend accepting as written. They want both parties to refrain from statements that could damage the other’s reputation, with particular attention to company-related communications.”
“Because of the Slack message.”
“Almost certainly.”
I thought of the hundreds of employees who had seen it.
Some had probably laughed.
Some had probably been uncomfortable.
Some might have been genuinely concerned about Aaron’s marriage and the company’s leadership.
I could not know.
“I am willing to stop discussing our marriage publicly,” I said. “I am not willing to sign something that makes it impossible to answer an honest question.”
“That is a distinction we can negotiate.”
I turned to the next page.
There was a proposed payment to me in exchange for a complete release of any claims associated with the marriage.
The amount was substantial enough to sound generous.
It was also unnecessary.
I had my own assets.
I had my own income.
And I did not want Aaron to be able to tell himself that he had purchased my silence and sent me away.
“Do they think I want his money?”
“I think they want to settle the divorce on terms they can describe as final and controlled,” Nathan said. “The payment may be intended to make the offer attractive, or it may be part of a broader negotiation strategy. We should not assume we know which.”
I read the amount again.
It was more than I had expected.
For one foolish second, I imagined how easy it would be to accept it, sign the papers, and disappear into a quieter life.
Then I imagined Aaron explaining to someone that he had taken care of me.
That he had been fair.
That whatever happened between us, he had made sure I was comfortable.
The thought made the money feel heavier than it looked on the page.
“I don't want a settlement designed to make him feel generous,” I said.
“Then we will negotiate one based on your legal position and your actual needs.”
Nathan closed his copy.
“There is something else.”
He took a sheet of paper from another folder.
“Aaron’s counsel says he is concerned that your investment company could have some connection to Prescott Global through overlapping investments or business relationships.”
“That's not something I know about.”
“Neither do I. That is why the accountant will review it.”
“My grandfather’s company has held investments in many businesses over the years. I have never managed the portfolio day to day.”
“Do you have any reason to believe it owns part of Prescott Global?”
“No.”
“Has Aaron ever asked you about a connection?”
“No.”
Nathan made a note.
“Then we won't speculate. We'll provide the relevant records, and the accountant can determine whether any connection exists.”
I nodded.
It was unsettling to discover that people were now examining the structure of my grandfather’s work as though it were a hidden weapon.
He had built his company carefully.
He had believed in patient investments, responsible management, and the importance of keeping personal relationships separate from financial decisions.
He had never encouraged me to treat money as power over other people.
He had taught me to understand it as responsibility.
I wondered what he would think of Aaron’s lawyers asking for every document they could find.
I suspected he would tell me to read every line and sign nothing in a hurry.
Nathan slid the settlement back toward me.
“We will send a counterproposal. We will preserve the protections in your prenuptial agreement, narrow the confidentiality language, and make the financial terms reflect what is actually necessary.”
“And the company message?”
“We can acknowledge that you will not use company systems to discuss private matters again. We do not need to agree that your message caused damages they have not established.”
I let out a breath.
“That sounds fair.”
“It is also practical.”
He gathered the pages.
“I want you to remember something, Claire. A proposal is not a verdict. You are allowed to reject terms that do not suit you.”
I took my notebook out of my bag.
“I have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“If Aaron had never discovered the value of my shares, would we be having this conversation?”
Nathan looked at me for a long moment.
“I cannot know what he would have done. But I can tell you that the timing of his interest is worth noticing.”
That was enough.
I did not need him to accuse Aaron of anything.
I had already spent too long making accusations in my head and then dismissing them because I could not prove what Aaron intended.
Now I could leave intention aside and look at conduct.
Aaron had stayed away from home.
He had lied about it.
He had continued the relationship with Jasmine while allowing me to believe that we were merely going through a difficult period.
And when I finally stopped protecting his reputation, his lawyers had turned their attention to my assets.
Those were facts.
They were enough to guide my next decision.
When I returned to my apartment, I found a small package outside the door.
It was wrapped in brown paper and addressed in Aaron’s handwriting.
I carried it inside and placed it on the table.
For several minutes, I did not open it.
I was afraid it would contain something sentimental enough to make me forget what had happened.
Eventually, I cut the string.
Inside was the silver picture frame that had stood on the desk in our bedroom.
The photograph showed Aaron and me at a charity dinner two years earlier.
He was smiling toward the camera.
I was looking at him.
I remembered the evening clearly.
He had arrived late, apologized in front of the guests, and held my hand throughout dinner.
I had believed that his attention meant something.
Now I wondered whether I had been looking at him so carefully because some part of me had already begun searching for the husband I thought I knew.
A folded note lay beneath the frame.
I thought you might want this. We had good years too.
I sat down.
We had good years.
That was true.
Aaron had once driven through a snowstorm because I had forgotten my medication at my parents’ house.
He had stayed beside me when my grandfather was dying.
He had made me laugh so hard at a restaurant that I had cried into my napkin.
Those memories were not erased by his betrayal.
But they did not cancel it either.
I turned the photograph facedown and returned the frame to its paper wrapping.
Then I placed the note in a drawer.
I was not ready to throw it away.
I was also not willing to display it.
That evening, Aaron called again.
I watched his name appear and disappear on the screen.
Then I sent a message.
I received the photograph. Please keep communication about the divorce with Nathan.
He replied almost immediately.
You make everything sound like a legal transaction.
I stared at the message.
For once, I answered without trying to soften the truth.
You made it one when you asked your lawyers to examine my assets before you asked me what I needed.
The typing indicator appeared.
Then disappeared.
A minute later, another message arrived.
That's not fair.
I set the phone down.
Perhaps it was not fair to reduce three years of marriage to one sentence.
But I had not reduced our marriage to that sentence.
Aaron had made a choice, and I was describing the consequence.
I went to the kitchen and made dinner.
I ate at the table with the radio playing softly in the background.
When I finished, I washed the dishes and put them away.
Then I sat down with my notebook and wrote three headings.
What I own.
What I owe.
What I want.
Under the first, I listed my premarital assets and the house in Marblehead.
Under the second, I listed the ordinary expenses and shared obligations that needed to be resolved.
Under the third, I wrote one sentence.
I want a life in which I do not have to convince someone to tell me the truth.
I underlined it once.
Then I closed the notebook.
For the first time, the future did not look easy.
But it looked like something I could choose.
Source: kaylestore.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Accountant Found a Connection Nobody Had Thought to Ask Me About
At 3:17 in the Morning, I Finally Stopped Waiting for My Husband to Come Home
Part 7 of 12
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