Chapter 4 - THE GOOD FAITH REPRISAL
Scott’s strategy changed within forty-eight hours.
The rage disappeared,
replaced by a desperate,
cloying sweetness that made my skin crawl.
Flowers arrived at my office on Wednesday.
Peonies—my favorite.
The card said: I was stressed. I didn't mean what I said. Let's talk.
I told the receptionist to put them in the breakroom.
Then came the emails.
Long,
rambling paragraphs about how much he missed our "partnership."
He mentioned our first date.
He mentioned the trip to Tuscany.
He mentioned how Evelyn always said we were a "solid team."
He was performing.
He was trying to build a paper trail of "good faith" reconciliation.
He thought if he could prove he tried to make it work,
the trustee would release the funds.
He was playing a game,
but he was playing against an expert.
I forwarded every email to Jerome.
I did not reply to a single one.
On Friday,
he showed up at the hotel lobby.
He was leaning against the marble pillar,
holding a bag of takeout from the bistro we used to frequent.
He looked tired,
the arrogance replaced by a frantic,
shifty look in his eyes.
“Avery,”
he said,
stepping forward as I walked through the doors.
“Please.”
“I was an idiot.”
“I’m not doing this here,
Scott,”
I said,
not stopping.
“Jerome told you to speak only to him.”
“Jerome is a shark!”
Scott hissed,
following me to the elevator.
“He’s trying to steal my inheritance!”
“No,”
I said,
pressing the 'up' button.
“He’s protecting my rights.”
“I’ll take back the divorce papers,”
Scott promised.
“I’ll move out of the master suite.”
“We can go to counseling.”
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped inside and turned to face him.
“You told me to pack my things,
Scott.”
“You told me it was your house now.”
“You told me I would regret fighting you.”
“I don't need counseling to understand what those words mean.”
“I’m broke,
Avery!”
he blurted out as the doors began to close.
“The bank locked everything!”
“I can't even pay the mortgage!”
The doors shut on his face.
I felt a surge of cold,
hard satisfaction.
He didn't want me.
He wanted his grandmother’s money.
And he needed my signature to get it.
He was finally realizing that "Avery Lynn Collins" was not just a name on a marriage certificate.
I was the gatekeeper.
I spent the weekend with Rachel at a spa.
We did not talk about Scott.
We talked about the future.
“What will you do with your half?”
she asked as we sat in the steam room.
“Half?”
“The marital assets,”
she said.
“The house was paid for during the marriage.”
“The appreciation on the investments.”
“And the inheritance settlement.”
I looked at my hands.
They were steady.
“I’m going to buy my own house,”
I said.
“One with a guest room for you.”
“And I’m going to make sure Scott Collins never takes up space in my mind again.”
The steam swirled around us,
cleansing the scent of the past.
I was not a victim.
I was not a middle-manager.
May you like
I was the architect of my own sanctuary.
And the blueprint was already complete.
