“A little,” I admitted, which was true, though not for the reasons he thought.
“Don’t be. This is going to be quick and painless, just some signatures. Then we can put this whole thing behind us and focus on the fun stuff. Wedding planning. Honeymoon. All of it.”
Quick and painless. I held onto those words, wondering if he’d remember saying them an hour from now.
Richard Brennan entered moments later. Mid-fifties. Silver hair, perfectly styled. A suit that probably cost $3,000. The kind of lawyer who made a career out of making wealthy men feel protected. He shook my hand with the grip of someone who’d perfected the art of seeming sincere.
“Miss Callaway, pleasure to meet you. Grant’s told me wonderful things. This should be very straightforward.”
Straightforward. Everyone kept using that word. We settled into chairs around a long conference table. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the city sprawling below us, storm clouds gathering in the distance. The room smelled like furniture polish and expensive leather.
Then Eleanor arrived.
I heard her before I saw her. The sharp click of heels against marble, precise and rhythmic like a countdown timer. She walked into the conference room carrying a single leather portfolio, her expression unreadable, her red lipstick a deliberate slash of color against her otherwise neutral palette. Richard stood, extending his hand.
“Miss Hatton, pleasure.”
Eleanor’s smile was razor-thin.
“Mr. Brennan. Shall we begin?”
There was something in the way she said it, polite on the surface, but underneath I caught the edge of controlled anticipation, like a chess player sitting down to a game they already knew they’d win.
We all took our seats. Grant beside me. Eleanor on my other side. Richard across from us, spreading documents across the table with practiced efficiency.
“Let’s start with Mr. Harrison’s financial disclosures,” Richard said, opening a thin folder. “Full transparency as requested.”
He laid out each document like he was presenting evidence, which in a way he was. Grant’s business valuation for Harrison and Associates: $340,000. I knew from overheard phone conversations that this number was inflated, based on projected earnings rather than actual revenue. His condo, purchased for $550,000, current mortgage balance $420,000. His Audi Q5, leased at $680 per month. His investment accounts: $87,000 in mutual funds, most of it inherited from his grandfather.
Richard presented each item with the confidence of someone who believed these numbers were impressive, and to most people they probably would be. Grant was doing fine. Better than fine, by normal standards. Grant himself sat back in his chair, arms crossed, radiating quiet confidence. This was his moment. The successful businessman. The provider. The man who’d built something worth protecting. He glanced at me once, offering a small, reassuring smile like he was saying, See? Nothing to worry about.
Richard slid the prenup document across the table, Grant’s original version, the one with all those devastating clauses.
“Standard terms,” he said smoothly. “Separate property remains separate. No alimony provisions. Clean division in the event of, well, the unlikely event of dissolution. Very straightforward.”
Grant nodded, his expression satisfied. In his mind, this was already over. We’d sign, shake hands, maybe take a photo to commemorate being responsible adults, then dinner at that French place, wine, celebration. He had no idea what was about to happen.
Eleanor didn’t touch the document Richard had pushed toward us. Instead, she opened her portfolio with deliberate, almost theatrical calm and pulled out a significantly thicker file.
“We’ve prepared a counterproposal,” she said, her voice clinical and professional, every word precisely articulated. “My client agrees to most of Mr. Harrison’s terms, with one minor adjustment.”
Richard’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“Adjustment?”
“Both parties must provide complete financial disclosure.”
Eleanor’s tone remained perfectly neutral, like she was discussing the weather.
“Tax returns for the previous five years, statements for all accounts, investment portfolios, real-estate holdings, business interests, the full picture.”
Richard frowned, glancing at the documents he’d already presented.
“We’ve already provided Mr. Harrison’s financial disclosures.”
“Mr. Harrison has provided his disclosures,” Eleanor interrupted smoothly, her voice pleasant but firm. “Miss Callaway has not.”
Grant turned to me, confusion flickering across his face, followed by something that looked like annoyance.
“Paige, you don’t need to. I mean, we’re not trying to make this complicated.”
I looked at him, really looked at him, and felt something inside me go very still and very quiet.
“Actually, I do,” I said softly. “If we’re going to be transparent, let’s be completely transparent.”
Eleanor slid the folder across the table. It landed with a thud that seemed to reverberate through the entire room, heavy with implications Grant couldn’t yet understand.
Richard opened it.
I watched his expression shift in real time. Professional neutrality cracking into confusion, then widening into shock, then settling into something close to panic. His lips moved silently as he scanned the first page, then flipped to the second, then the third, his eyes darting faster and faster across the numbers.
Grant, impatient now, reached over and grabbed one of the sheets from the folder. The color drained from his face so quickly, I thought he might actually faint.
“What?”
His voice came out barely above a whisper.
“What is this?”
I met his eyes, keeping my own voice steady, calm.
“My financial disclosure. Exactly what you asked for.”
