Chapter Two: The Morning After

By eight o’clock the next morning, my marriage had become a logistical problem.

There were clothes to separate, passwords to change, appointments to cancel and a mother to call before someone else did it for me. There was also a half-empty bottle of Cabernet on my kitchen counter and a diamond bracelet sitting beside it, both evidence that I’d made questionable decisions the night before.

The wine had been mine.

The bracelet, apparently, had been communal property.

I was pouring coffee when my phone rang.

GRANT.

I let it ring.

Thirty seconds later, a text arrived.

We need to talk about last night.

I stared at it.

I thought that’s what last night was.

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

You shouldn’t have signed those papers like that.

Interesting.

The man who had presented me with divorce papers over anniversary champagne was now concerned that I’d accepted them too efficiently.

You asked me for a divorce, Grant. I gave you one.

His response took longer.

I didn’t ask you to act irrationally.

I laughed out loud in my empty kitchen.

There are moments in every marriage when you realize that you and your spouse have fundamentally different definitions of a word.

Apparently, we’d reached ours.

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I called my mother.

She picked up cheerfully. “Happy belated anniversary, baby. I was going to call last night, but I didn’t want to interrupt—”

“Mom.”

She stopped.

Twenty minutes later, she’d threatened Grant’s life twice, cried once and offered to move into my house despite living less than fifteen minutes away.

My father was more restrained.

He only asked for Grant’s address.

“Daddy, he still lives here.”

“Not for long.”

That was fair.

Grant had spent most of the previous month claiming late nights at the office and sleeping in our guest room whenever he came home. In hindsight, the sudden respect he’d developed for my uninterrupted sleep was less thoughtful than I’d believed.

“I’m okay,” I told them.

My mother made a noise indicating that she considered this an obvious lie.

“I will be okay,” I corrected.

That she accepted.

After we hung up, I carried my coffee upstairs.

Grant’s closet told a story I hadn’t been ready to read.

Several suits were missing. So were his favorite watches, two pairs of shoes and the leather overnight bag I’d bought him in Florence.

This hadn’t been impulsive.

He’d been leaving me in installments.

That realization hurt more than the dinner had.

I sat on the edge of our bed and allowed myself exactly five minutes to feel sorry for myself.

I made it to twelve.

Then the doorbell rang.

A courier stood outside holding an enormous arrangement of white roses.

For one stupid second, my heart reacted before my brain did.

Grant.

Of course.

The card was tucked between the stems.

I opened it.

Camille—

Evelyn told me you’re attending Monday’s meeting.

I thought condolences were appropriate.

For the marriage or the meeting, you may choose.

—Julian

I stared at the card.

Then I read it again.

Nine years, and Julian Cross was still an asshole.

Unfortunately, he was also funny.

I carried the flowers inside and placed them on the dining table before deciding that was too prominent. I moved them to the kitchen island.

Still too prominent.

Eventually I put them in the formal living room, where I almost never went.

Perfect.

My phone rang again.

This time it was Evelyn.

“Did you tell Julian about the divorce?”

“Absolutely not.”

“He sent flowers.”

“That sounds like Julian.”

“He wrote condolences.”

“That definitely sounds like Julian.”

I leaned against the counter. “Why is he handling Whitmore?”

“Because Cross & Hale represents Monroe Capital on several portfolio matters, and Julian personally handled the original financing.”

I went still.

“What?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

That was impossible.

I had reviewed portions of Whitmore’s financing documents myself when Grant asked me to “take a quick look” three years ago.

Outside counsel had been identified throughout as Cross & Hale.

I’d never asked which partner.

Apparently, I’d become very skilled at not asking questions whose answers frightened me.

“Does Julian know Whitmore is Grant’s company?”

“He does now.”

My stomach tightened.

“And?”

“And what?”

“What did he say?”

Evelyn paused just long enough to annoy me.

“He said Monday should be interesting.”

Of course he did.

I closed my eyes.

“Evelyn.”

“What?”

“Please tell me we’re evaluating the financing on the merits.”

Her tone immediately became serious.

“We are. Your divorce changes nothing about our fiduciary obligations.”

“Good.”

“But Camille?”

“Yes?”

“The merits aren’t particularly good.”

I straightened.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should read the file before Monday.”

A document notification appeared while she was speaking.

MONROE CAPITAL — WHITMORE TECHNOLOGIES CONFIDENTIAL

“I just sent it.”

I opened the attachment.

The executive summary was thirty-eight pages.

The first red flag appeared on page four.

The second appeared on page six.

By page eleven, I’d stopped drinking my coffee.

“Evelyn.”

“I know.”

“Why is their cash position this bad?”

“That is one of several questions we intend to ask your husband.”

I kept reading.

Whitmore Technologies wasn’t simply seeking growth capital.

It needed the money.

Badly.

Grant had told me the new financing round was about expansion.

According to the documents in front of me, it looked much more like survival.

Then I reached the section detailing executive expenditures.

My eyes stopped on a line item.

Strategic consulting: Cole Brand Strategies — $486,000.

Cole.

Vanessa Cole.

I read it again.

Nearly half a million dollars had been paid to a company sharing Grant’s mistress’s surname.

“Evelyn?”

“Yes?”

“Who is Cole Brand Strategies?”

“I was wondering when you’d get there.”

My front door opened.

Grant.

He walked into the kitchen carrying the overnight bag from Florence and stopped when he saw the file open on my laptop.

For several seconds neither of us spoke.

Then his eyes moved to the Monroe Capital logo on the screen.

His face changed.

“Why do you have that?”

I slowly closed the laptop.

For the first time since Laurent, I smiled.

“I think that’s an excellent question.”