“What?”
“The inventory.”
“My father purchased most of that house’s contents before I married Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“Then make a list.”
I did not strip the home bare in revenge.
That would have been theatrical.
Instead, we followed the prenup.
Items clearly listed as my premarital or inherited property were removed to secure storage with documentation.
Anything disputed stayed.
Anything Adrian owned stayed.
No smashed vases.
No dramatic chandeliers ripped from ceilings.
Just inventories.
Receipts.
Photographs.
Ownership.
A few days later, Adrian finally called.
I was still at Willowcrest Medical Center.
His first sentence was:
“Claire, what the hell are you doing?”
Not:
Are you alive?
Not:
I heard you had emergency surgery.
Not:
I am sorry.
“What am I doing?”
“The board froze access to several accounts.”
“Yes.”
“You contacted outside counsel.”
“Yes.”
“You had property removed from the house.”
“My property.”
He exhaled sharply.
“You are acting irrationally.”
That word almost made me laugh.
“Irrationally?”
“You’re medicated.”
“You just had surgery.”
“You need to stop making major decisions.”
There it was.
The old Adrian.
Whenever I disagreed with him, my judgment became the problem.
I asked:
“When were you going to divorce me?”
Silence.
“Claire.”
“No.”
“Answer.”
“I thought the legal paperwork had already been initiated.”
“You thought?”
“The attorney was handling it.”
“My attorney has found no filed petition.”
Silence again.
Then:
“It was supposed to be done.”
“So you held a public wedding at Evermere Grand Resort while legally married to me.”
He lowered his voice.
“Vanessa and I made a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
