The next morning, I received a call from Nathan before I had finished getting dressed.
He had heard from the other side.
Aaron's attorneys wanted to begin discussing the proposed settlement.
I sat down beside the window.
"Already?"
"They want to understand what you're asking for."
"I'm not asking for anything of his."
"I know. We'll make that clear through the proper process."
I looked at the pale morning light across the floor.
For three years, I had tried to prevent disagreements from becoming serious.
Now, even the first formal conversation about the divorce was happening faster than I expected.
I wasn't sorry I had started it.
I was simply learning how many steps followed a decision that took only a few seconds to make.
Nathan explained what information we would provide and what we would hold until the documents had been reviewed.
He reminded me not to answer questions from Aaron's family about the financial details.
I agreed.
I wasn't going to discuss my grandfather's investment interest at a family dinner or explain the terms of my prenuptial agreement over the phone.
Those matters belonged in the legal process.
After we hung up, I switched on my phone again.
There was a message from Aaron's mother asking me to call her.
I knew the tone she would use.
Concern first.
Then disappointment.
Then a reminder that the Prescott family did not handle private matters publicly.
She had never said those words exactly.
She didn't need to.
I had heard the message often enough.
I returned her call.
She answered on the first ring.
"Claire, what is going on?"
"I'm ending my marriage to Aaron."
There was a pause.
"I understand you're upset."
"I'm not calling to discuss whether I'm allowed to be upset."
Her silence was immediate.
I had never spoken to her that way before.
She recovered quickly.
"This is a serious matter. You shouldn't have put that message where the entire company could see it."
"I understand that you dislike the message."
"That's not the point."
"It is one of the points."
She exhaled sharply.
I could imagine her sitting in one of the Prescott family's carefully arranged rooms, holding her phone and trying to decide how to bring me back into a conversation she could control.
She asked whether I had spoken to Aaron.
"Not directly."
"Then how can you make such a decision?"
I looked at the closed folder on the table.
"Because I have been living in this marriage for three years."
She didn't answer.
I told her I would communicate through Nathan about the divorce.
Then I ended the call.
My hands were shaking.
Not badly.
Just enough that I had to set the phone down.
I wasn't accustomed to letting a conversation end without trying to make the other person comfortable.
That afternoon, I met Nathan to review the proposed settlement.
He had prepared a list of the issues that needed attention.
The prenuptial agreement.
The property transferred to me before the wedding.
The investment accounts.
The minority interest my grandfather had left me.
The division of any joint assets.
We went through each item carefully.
I didn't want a settlement based on anger.
I wanted an agreement that reflected the facts and allowed both of us to move forward.
Nathan explained that Aaron's side might request additional documentation.
That was reasonable.
I had no intention of withholding records that were properly relevant.
But I also had no intention of allowing my private financial information to become a subject of family gossip.
"Keep everything documented," Nathan said.
"I will."
"And don't agree to anything simply because you want this to be over."
I looked at him.
"That sounds like something I would have done before."
He didn't smile.
"Then don't do it now."
The words stayed with me after I left his office.
For years, I had chosen the quickest route back to peace.
If Aaron was annoyed, I softened my position.
If his family was disappointed, I explained myself.
If an argument threatened to spoil an event, I let the subject drop.
I had treated temporary calm as proof that I had made the right decision.
But peace that depended on one person remaining silent was not peace.
It was an arrangement.
And I had finally decided to leave it.
Later that evening, I heard from a former acquaintance who worked at Prescott Global.
She asked whether I was all right.
I thanked her.
She said people were talking about the message, but she didn't offer details, and I didn't ask for them.
I wasn't interested in turning the company into a source of information about Aaron's private life.
I had made my point.
Whatever happened inside the building now was for the people who worked there to address.
I did not need to follow every reaction.
Still, I thought about Michael Reeves.
I knew he had worked with Aaron for years.
If anyone understood the difference between Aaron's public confidence and the person he became when challenged, it was probably Michael.
I wondered what he had said to Aaron after the message spread.
I didn't know.
And I wasn't going to invent an answer just to satisfy my curiosity.
The following morning, I returned to my parents' kitchen and found a small stack of envelopes beside my coffee.
My father had collected the mail that had arrived at the house where Aaron and I lived.
He had brought the envelopes without opening them.
I thanked him.
Most were ordinary.
One contained a financial statement I needed for Nathan.
I placed it with the other records.
My father watched me for a moment.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
I considered saying no.
Then I pulled out a chair.
"I think I'm afraid of what happens after the divorce."
He sat across from me.
"That's understandable."
"What if I don't know what to do with my life?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "You knew what to do with your life before you married him."
I looked down at my hands.
I had known.
I had studied law.
I had managed my own affairs.
I had maintained relationships with my family and kept track of my finances.
I had made decisions without needing Aaron to confirm them.
Those parts of my life had not vanished.
They had simply become less visible.
My father reached for his coffee.
"You don't have to become the person you were before him," he said. "You can decide who you want to be now."
I carried that thought with me through the day.
I didn't need to prove that I had never loved Aaron.
I didn't need to erase the years we had shared.
I only needed to stop treating those years as a reason to sacrifice whatever came next.
That night, Aaron sent a longer message.
He wanted to speak in person.
He said the situation had become unnecessarily complicated.
He said we needed to talk privately.
I read it once.
Then I forwarded it to Nathan.
I didn't reply.
Not yet.
The old version of me would have rushed to explain why I had done what I did.
She would have tried to reassure Aaron that I wasn't trying to damage his reputation.
She would have promised to keep the divorce quiet.
She would have offered him a way to feel that he still controlled the conversation.
I understood why she had done those things.
She had wanted the marriage to survive.
But I no longer wanted to survive it by making myself smaller.
I placed the phone in a drawer and returned to the kitchen.
My mother was preparing dinner.
She asked whether I wanted to help.
I washed the vegetables while she set the table.
We talked about ordinary things.
When dinner was ready, we sat down together.
No one was waiting for Aaron to arrive.
No one had saved a place for him.
For the first time, that felt less like an absence and more like a choice.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The Records My Grandfather Left Behind Had Always Been Part of My Life, Even When My Marriage Made Them Seem Unimportant
The Fifth Night Changed Everything, but the Message I Sent Before Dawn Was Only the Beginning of My Decision
Part 6 of 20
