Chapter Three: Separate Property

Grant set his bag down carefully.

“Camille, where did you get that file?”

It wasn’t fear in his voice yet.

Not quite.

But it was close enough to interest me.

“Good morning to you too.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He crossed the kitchen, stopping on the opposite side of the island. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d thought I knew every version of this man. I knew the smile he used when he wanted something, the silence that meant he was angry and the tiny muscle that moved in his jaw when he was lying.

That muscle was moving now.

“That information is confidential.”

“I know.”

“You can’t have it.”

“And yet.”

“Camille.”

I sighed. “You really have to stop saying my name as though it’s a legal argument.”

His gaze dropped to my laptop.

“Did someone at the fund send that to you?”

“The fund?”

“Monroe Capital.”

Hearing my own family name come out of my husband’s mouth as though it belonged to strangers was almost surreal.

“How much do you know about Monroe Capital?”

He frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Humor me.”

“I know enough. They’re one of our institutional investors.”

“One of?”

“Our largest.”

That was more accurate.

“What else?”

He studied me. “Why are you asking?”

I rested my elbows on the island.

“I’m trying to understand something.”

“What?”

“How you managed to be married to me for seven years without ever becoming curious about my family.”

His irritation faded slightly.

“Your family?”

“Yes, Grant. The Monroes.”

“I know about your family.”

“Do you?”

“Your grandfather was in finance. Your aunt runs some investment company.”

Some investment company.

My grandfather would have found that hilarious.

Monroe Capital managed just under eleven billion dollars across private equity, private credit and real estate investments. It wasn’t BlackRock, but it also wasn’t Aunt Evelyn operating a Robinhood account from her kitchen.

“And you never wondered why it was called Monroe Capital?”

His face went completely still.

There it was.

I watched the realization arrive slowly, then all at once.

“No.”

I said nothing.

“Camille.”

I waited.

“Your family owns Monroe Capital?”

“My family founded it.”

He stared at me.

“How much of it?”

“Enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means my grandfather’s controlling interest passed through his trust when he died.”

“To Evelyn?”

“To me.”

The kitchen became very quiet.

Grant actually laughed once, but there was no humor in it.

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“You’re a lawyer.”

I blinked. “I’m glad we’ve established that.”

“No. I mean you work. You go to an office every day.”

“People with investments are permitted employment.”

“You told me your grandfather left you some money.”

“He did.”

“How much?”

I smiled faintly. “We’re getting divorced, remember?”

His expression hardened.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

That question was so extraordinary that I needed a moment.

“You brought your pregnant mistress to our anniversary dinner, gave her my grandmother’s bracelet, handed me divorce papers and tried to give me my own house. And this morning you’d like to discuss whether I’ve violated the trust in our marriage?”

His face reddened.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

Grant paced away from the island.

Then he stopped.

“The settlement.”

Ah.

There it was.

“What about it?”

“You signed an agreement identifying our separate property.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t disclose this.”

“You didn’t ask me to.”

His head snapped toward me. “That’s not how divorce works.”

“No, it isn’t. Which is one of several reasons your attorney advised me to obtain independent counsel before signing.”

His confidence returned slightly. “Then the agreement may not be enforceable.”

“Perhaps.”

That answer bothered him more than an argument would have.

The truth was that I wasn’t interested in playing games with disclosure obligations or trying to trick Grant into an unenforceable agreement. My separate assets had always been separately maintained, our premarital agreement addressed much of the issue, and my own counsel would review everything before anything became final.

But Grant didn’t need a free legal consultation from me this morning.

He needed to sit with uncertainty.

“Why are you involved with my financing?”

“I’m attending Monday’s investment committee meeting.”

“No.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You cannot participate in a decision involving my company while we’re divorcing.”

“Then I’m sure your attorneys can raise whatever conflict concerns they believe appropriate. I have no intention of violating Monroe Capital’s governance procedures.”

He stared at me.

This was the Grant I recognized: calculating, rearranging the board in his head.

Then something else occurred to him.

“Julian.”

I said nothing.

His mouth tightened. “Cross & Hale.”

Apparently, my husband could connect dots when sufficiently motivated.

“Is he involved?”

“He’s outside counsel.”

Grant laughed bitterly. “Of course he is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.”

“No. Tell me.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he picked up his overnight bag.

“This is unbelievable.”

I watched him walk toward the hallway.

“Grant.”

He stopped.

“Who is Cole Brand Strategies?”

His back stiffened.

There it was again.

That muscle in his jaw.

When he turned around, his expression was carefully blank.

“A vendor.”

“A vendor you’ve paid almost half a million dollars?”

“They handle marketing strategy.”

“Does Vanessa own it?”

His silence answered.

I nodded slowly.

“Interesting.”

“It was a legitimate engagement.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“You implied it.”

“No, Grant. I asked a question.”

He gripped the handle of his bag.

“Stay out of my company.”

The words landed between us.

I thought about the nights I’d reviewed contracts for him after working ten-hour days of my own. The pitch decks I’d edited, introductions I’d arranged, dinners I’d hosted, crises I’d talked him through and years I’d spent believing that helping my husband succeed was something we were building together.

Then I thought about the financing file upstairs.

“Your company,” I said quietly, “currently owes Monroe Capital eighty-two million dollars.”

Grant didn’t respond.

“And Monroe Capital,” I continued, “belongs to me.”

The color left his face.

I didn’t smile this time.

“Maybe you should stop telling me where I’m allowed to stand.”