The phone’s harsh ring cut through the peaceful silence of my corner office on the thirty-fifth floor. I glanced at the caller ID, surprised to see Richard’s name flashing across the screen at ten-thirty in the morning. My husband rarely called during work hours, especially not when he knew I was preparing for a major corporate merger case.
Something was wrong. The moment I heard his voice, cold, distant, almost mechanical, I felt a chill run down my spine, the kind of premonition that makes your stomach clench before the bad news even arrives. Alexandra, this isn’t working anymore.
I want a divorce, he said without preamble, without even a hello. Thirteen years of marriage dismissed in eight words, delivered with all the emotion of someone ordering coffee. I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white as I tried to process what I was hearing.
The Manhattan skyline stretched out beyond my office window, unchanged, indifferent to the fact that my world was crumbling. Richard, what are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke? My voice sounded strange to my own ears, too high, too breathless. I stood up, nearly knocking over the crystal paperweight he’d given me for our tenth anniversary.
It caught the morning light, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the stacks of legal briefs on my mahogany desk. It’s not a joke, Alexandra. I’ve already moved most of my things out.
Martin Goldstein will handle the details from here. Don’t try to contact me directly. All communication goes through him.
The finality in his voice stunned me. There was no room for discussion, no explanation offered. You can’t just end our marriage over the phone.
Richard, we need to talk about this face-to-face, I pleaded, hating the desperation creeping into my voice. I was Alexandra Montgomery, the attorney who made corporate executives squirm during depositions. I didn’t beg, yet here I was, clutching the phone like a lifeline.
There’s nothing to discuss. I’ve made my decision. A brief pause.
Then, You’ve changed, Alexandra. We both have. It’s better this way.
The line went dead before I could respond, leaving me standing there, staring at my reflection in the window glass. A successful woman in a tailored suit, looking utterly lost. My assistant Sarah’s concerned face appeared at my door.
Alex? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. She’d been with me for six years, long enough to read the subtle shifts in my expression. I motioned for her to close the door.
Richard just called. He wants a divorce. Saying the words out loud made them more real, more painful.
Sarah’s eyes widened in shock. What? Why? You two seemed fine at the firm’s Christmas party last month. She crossed the room and took the seat across from my desk.
I sank back into my leather chair, feeling suddenly exhausted. Apparently not. I massaged my temples, trying to make sense of it all.
He told me not to contact him. Said everything needs to go through his lawyer, Martin Goldstein. Sarah’s expression shifted from shock to indignation.
Goldstein? That shark from Perkins and Gray? Richard’s planning to play hardball right out of the gate? She leaned forward. Alex, you need to take this seriously. Goldstein doesn’t mess around.
I nodded, my mind already shifting gears. Years of legal training kicking in despite the emotional earthquake. I know exactly who Martin Goldstein is.
He’s represented three of Richard’s restaurant acquisitions. A thought struck me. But he’s never handled a divorce case as far as I know.
He’s strictly corporate. Maybe Richard thinks having a corporate attorney will intimidate you into accepting whatever terms they offer. Sarah suggested, her loyalty evident in the fierce protectiveness of her tone.
Perhaps. I opened my laptop, typing quickly. Or maybe Richard doesn’t realize that his wife has spent the last decade becoming one of the top contract attorneys in this city.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. When we first met, I was a 20-year-old receptionist at an advertising agency where Richard’s restaurant was a client. He was 31, already successful, confident, and utterly charming.
I had been dazzled by him, by the world he introduced me to. I remembered how proud he’d been when I decided to go to law school, how he’d boasted to his friends about his brilliant wife. My Alexandra is going to be a force to be reckoned with, he’d say, his arm around my waist.
Apparently, he hadn’t considered what that might mean if we ever ended up on opposite sides. I’m going to need to clear my calendar for the next few days, I told Sarah, already mentally reorganizing my caseload. Call Thomas and see if he can take the lead on the Westlake merger.
And find out everything you can about Richard’s recent activities, business transactions, travel records, anything unusual in the last six months. Sarah nodded, already making notes. What about your meeting with the Clayton Industries Board this afternoon? Reschedule.
Family emergency. The words tasted bitter. And Sarah? Not a word about this to anyone in the office yet.
After she left, I sat motionless, staring at the framed photo on my desk. Richard and me on our tenth anniversary trip to Bali, both of us smiling on a pristine beach. I tried to reconcile that image with the cold voice on the phone this morning.
What had changed? When had it changed? I thought back over the past few months, searching for warning signs I might have missed. There had been subtle shifts. More late nights at the office for both of us.
Fewer shared meals. Conversations that stayed on the surface of our lives, rather than delving deeper. But nothing that screamed impending divorce.
Richard had seemed more distant lately, yes. But I’d attributed that to stress over the opening of his newest restaurant location. I pulled up our shared calendar on my phone, scrolling back through the last six months.
Richard’s business trips had increased from the usual once a month to nearly every other weekend. There were dinner meetings that ran unusually late. Gym sessions at odd hours.
Looking at the pattern now, with fresh eyes, it was obvious. The realization hit me like a physical blow. Richard was seeing someone else.
The tears came then, hot and unexpected. I hadn’t cried in years, not since my father’s funeral. I allowed myself exactly five minutes, setting the timer on my phone.
Five minutes to feel the hurt, the betrayal, the humiliation. Then I dried my eyes, reapplied my makeup, and did what I’d been trained to do. I started gathering information.
By noon, I had accessed our joint accounts and discovered several interesting charges. Hotel rooms in the city. Why would he need a hotel when we had a penthouse fifteen minutes away? Expensive jewelry purchases from Tiffany that I’d never received.
Dinners at intimate restaurants on nights he’d told me he was working late. The evidence mounted, each new discovery like another cut. The most damning proof came when I checked our cell phone account.
Richard had a second line I didn’t recognize, with hundreds of texts and calls to the same number. I couldn’t access the content of the messages. I wasn’t that kind of lawyer, but the pattern was clear enough.
I was about to call Goldstein’s office when my phone pinged with an email notification. It was from Martin Goldstein himself, requesting a meeting tomorrow afternoon to discuss the terms of your separation agreement. Attached was a document outlining a proposed settlement that made my blood boil.
Richard was offering me our city apartment and a modest monthly alimony for five years. In exchange, I would relinquish all claims to his business holdings, which constituted the vast majority of our marital assets. It was insulting.
Not just financially, but personally. After thirteen years, after I’d supported him through the early struggles of his business, after I’d helped review every contract for his restaurant expansions, this was what he thought I deserved. I smiled for the first time that day.
A dangerous smile that would have warned anyone who knew me well to tread carefully. Richard had forgotten something crucial. Before becoming his wife, I’d signed a prenuptial agreement.
An agreement that I, as a naive twenty-year-old, hadn’t fully understood. But one that I, as a thirty-three-year-old contract attorney now knew, contained a very interesting infidelity clause. I replied to Goldstein’s email, accepting the meeting but suggesting his office rather than the neutral location he’d proposed.
Then I began my own preparations, starting with a call to our bank to freeze the transfers Richard had initiated that morning from our joint investment account. That evening, I returned to our penthouse for the first time since Richard’s call. The space felt different now.
Emptier, despite the minimal evidence of Richard’s departure. His favorite watch was missing from the bedside table. Some clothes gone from the closet.
His laptop no longer on his desk. But he’d left most of his possessions, confident, perhaps, that he’d be returning for them soon. I walked through each room slowly, seeing our shared life with new eyes.
Photos from vacations and celebrations lined the hallway. Visual markers of a relationship I thought would last forever. Had he been unhappy all this time? Or was this something new? A midlife crisis wrapped in the fresh excitement of a younger woman? In his home office, I found what I was looking for.
A small safe hidden behind a painting. Its combination unchanged from the day we’d bought it. The date we met.
Inside were various documents, including our prenuptial agreement. I removed it carefully, sat at his desk, and began to read. The language was formal, legalistic, but the relevant clause was clear.
In the event that either party engages in provable infidelity, the aggrieved spouse shall be entitled to 50% of the offending spouse’s business assets acquired during the marriage, in addition to standard division of marital property. Richard had insisted on this clause, convinced that a young wife would eventually stray. The memory of his patronizing smile as he’d explained it made anger flare hot in my chest.
It’s just protection, Alexandra, for both of us. But we both knew it had been about his insecurity. His fear that a 20-year-old would eventually be tempted by someone her own age.
The irony was almost poetic. The very clause he’d created to protect himself would now be his undoing. I slept in the guest room that night, unable to face our bed.
Before turning out the light, I sent a text to the mystery number from Richard’s secret phone. We need to talk about Richard. Then I switched off my phone and slept more soundly than I had any right to.
The next morning, I dressed with deliberate care. A sharp charcoal suit that Richard had always said made me look intimidating. Emerald earrings that matched my eyes, my grandmother’s vintage watch for luck.
I gathered the documents I’d need, including the prenuptial agreement and evidence of Richard’s affair, and placed them in my briefcase. Then I headed to Martin Goldstein’s office, ready for the confrontation that would determine my future. Goldstein’s assistant looked surprised when I gave my name.
Oh, Mrs. Montgomery, we weren’t expecting you until three this afternoon. I decided to come early. I said, with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes, Is Martin available now? It’s rather urgent.
She hesitated, then picked up her phone, murmuring into it too quietly for me to hear. After a moment, she nodded. He can see you now.
Follow me, please. As I walked into Martin Goldstein’s corner office, I saw him rising from behind his desk, hand extended in greeting. He was a small man with wire-rimmed glasses and a reputation for ruthlessness that belied his mild appearance.
Mrs. Montgomery, I presume? I’m Martin Goldstein. His tone was professional, but tinged with something like pity. Yes, I’m the wife, I confirmed, setting my briefcase on his desk with a decisive click.
The moment I spoke those words, something shifted in Goldstein’s expression. He paled slightly, his extended hand frozen in midair as recognition dawned. You’re Alexandra Montgomery, from Montgomery and Jenkins.
