Chapter 3 - The Cold War in Gray Wool
Three weeks later, I sat in a twenty-fourth-floor conference room at the corner of Peachtree and 14th Street. The glass table was wide enough to land a small plane on, polished to such a high sheen that I could see the distorted reflection of my own face looking back at me.
I wore a charcoal wool pantsuit, a crisp white poplin shirt buttoned to the throat, and flat leather loafers. My hair was pulled back into a severe chignon. Beneath the heavy fabric of my trousers, a tiny, invisible swell was just beginning to firm above my pelvic bone.
Across the expanse of glass sat Daniel, flanked by two attorneys whose suits looked like they had been tailored out of liquid slate. Daniel was looking at his Cartier watch, performing impatience.
Next to me sat Evelyn Cross.
Evelyn was seventy-one years old, five feet two inches tall, and possessed the courtroom temperament of an iron poker. She had gone to law school at Emory in the 1970s when women were still barred from the campus dining clubs, and she had spent the last forty years dismantling arrogant men who thought their wealth entitled them to rewrite their marital contracts. Her father had been a Charleston magistrate who fished with my grandfather.
"Let’s revisit section four," Daniel’s lead counsel, a partner named Henderson with teeth like piano keys, said smoothly. "Our client is prepared to offer the Morningside residential property free and clear, along with a structured settlement of one point two million dollars over four years. In exchange, Mrs. Beaumont will execute a standard non-disclosure agreement regarding Mr. Beaumont’s private enterprise, specifically the joint venture with Vance Development, and will waive any future claims to equity, stock options, or partnership revenues derived from the Florida portfolio."
Henderson slid a red-tabbed folder across the glass.
"Additionally," Henderson added, dropping his voice into that condescending, clinical tone men use when discussing female anatomy, "in the event that the... putative pregnancy reaches term, Mr. Beaumont will establish an educational trust fund capped at five hundred thousand dollars, contingent upon Mrs. Beaumont retaining sole physical custody and relocating her primary residence outside the greater Atlanta metropolitan statistical area."
Daniel didn't look at me. He looked out the window at the skyline of Midtown, where his cranes were lifting steel over West Peachtree.
"They want to buy your exile, Claire," Evelyn murmured beside me, not bothering to lower her voice. She didn't touch the folder. Instead, she pushed her tortoiseshell reading glasses down her nose and leveled a gaze at Henderson that could have pickled cucumbers.
"Mr. Henderson," Evelyn said, her Charleston drawl dripping like cold cane syrup. "My client is not signing your non-disclosure agreement. She is not taking your four-year installment plan. And she certainly will not be taking five hundred thousand dollars to raise a child whose father’s equity position in the Palm Beach harbor redevelopment alone is valued at forty-two million dollars."
Daniel snapped his gaze to the table. "Claire, this is ridiculous. You don't have the resources to fight this. Julianne’s family has retained the entire commercial litigation department at King & Spalding. If you drag this out, the legal fees will consume whatever equity you think you have in the Morningside house before we ever reach discovery."
I looked directly into his eyes for the first time since that night in the kitchen.
"Keep the Morningside house, Daniel," I said.
The room went dead silent. Even Henderson’s manicured hand froze on his legal pad.
"What?" Daniel frowned.
"Keep the house," I repeated calmly. "Keep the tile we spent three weeks choosing. Keep the gray guest room. Keep the dining room table. Keep all of it."
"Claire," Daniel said, his eyes narrowing with deep suspicion. "What are you playing at?"
"I don't want your house. I don't want your four-year payout. And I don't want a single dime of spousal maintenance from you." I turned to Evelyn, who nodded once, her expression entirely impassive.
Evelyn slid our counter-proposal across the table. It was three pages long.
"Here are our terms," Evelyn stated. "First: Immediate, unconditional quitclaim deeds from Mr. Beaumont surrendering any and all residual or marital interest in the forty-two acres known as the Hemlock Hollow property in Fannin County. It was non-marital ancestral land to begin with, but we want the title scrubbed clean of his signature."
Daniel scoffed. "The mountain scrub? You want that rock pile? Take it. Gladly."
"Second," Evelyn continued, ignoring him completely. "Mr. Beaumont will assign one hundred percent of the registered intellectual property, trademark filings, and creative design patents for *Beaumont Creative Studio LLC*—which my client built from scratch prior to the marriage—back to Mrs. Beaumont, without any non-compete covenants or geographic restrictions."
"Done," Henderson said quickly, scenting an easy exit. "The studio’s gross billings were negligible compared to the development firm."
"And third," I said, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the table. "Standard statutory child support pursuant to the State of Georgia guidelines, tied directly to your verified tax returns, audited annually by an independent forensic accountant. Not a penny less. Not a penny more. You will have supervised visitation rights once every three months, upon seventy-two hours' written notice, at my primary residence. If you miss two consecutive visits, your visitation reverts to the discretion of the court."
Daniel laughed—a harsh, defensive bark. "You think you're going to raise my child in the woods on statutory child support while refusing a million-dollar cash settlement? Are you insane?"
"No, Daniel," I said, standing up. I smoothed the lapels of my jacket. "I’m free. Sign the papers by five o'clock, or Evelyn files our petition for divorce in Fulton County Superior Court tomorrow morning at nine. With the grounds listed as adultery. With Julianne Vance named as the co-respondent. With your private text messages from the Breakers entered into the public record before your joint venture’s press conference on Friday."
Daniel went white. The color drained from his lips so fast he looked ill. Henderson reached out, grabbing Daniel’s forearm to stop him from speaking, but Daniel’s eyes were locked on mine, wide with shock and sudden, desperate fury.
"You wouldn't," he hissed.
"Try me," I said softly. "You told me that night that I was undignified, Daniel. You have no idea what a woman with nothing left to lose will do to protect her dignity."
May you like
I turned and walked out of the conference room. Evelyn followed, the tap-tap of her sensible leather heels echoing like small, precise hammer blows against the marble lobby floor.
***
