Chapter 8 - The Day Ethan Signed
The divorce hearing took place on a gray Monday morning in February.
Five months after Dad died.
Five months after Miami.
Five months after I left Chicago.
Ethan arrived before me.
He wore a dark suit.
No entourage.
Leo waited outside.
I sat beside Margaret.
Ethan sat beside his attorney.
For two people who had once promised forever in front of two hundred guests, ending the marriage required surprisingly little ceremony.
Names.
Dates.
Assets.
Questions.
Did we understand?
Yes.
Were we acting voluntarily?
Yes.
Had attempts at reconciliation failed?
I hesitated.
The judge looked toward me.
“Mrs. Blackwood?”
“Yes.”
My voice sounded distant.
Across the room, Ethan did not move.
The settlement gave me nothing beyond what I requested.
My own accounts.
My own belongings.
A small lakeside cottage Dad had left me outside Chicago.
No alimony.
No Blackwood property.
Ethan had originally offered millions.
I refused.
Not because taking money would have made me weak.
Because I needed to know the life after him was mine.
The judge reviewed the final page.
Ethan signed first.
His hand did not shake.
Mine did.
I thought of Dad.
Never let the world see your hand shaking.
Then I stopped.
That advice had helped me survive his death.
But maybe I no longer needed it.
I let my hand shake.
Then I signed.
Claire Bennett.
Not Blackwood.
For the first time in two years.
The judge approved the dissolution.
Just like that, our marriage ended.
Outside the courtroom Ethan stood near the elevators.
I could have walked away.
Instead I stopped.
“So.”
He almost smiled.
“So.”
“You're officially free of me.”
Ethan's expression changed.
“I never wanted to be free of you.”
My chest hurt.
“Don't.”
“I'm not asking you to change anything.”
“Good.”
He reached inside his coat.
For one terrible second I expected jewelry.
Instead he handed me Dad's watch.
I stared at my bare wrist.
I had given it to investigators during the case.
“I thought Lena had it.”
“She returned it to my attorney by mistake.”
I took it.
Ethan's fingers did not touch mine.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
I turned.
“Claire.”
I stopped.
Ethan looked at me for a long time.
“I loved you badly.”
I felt tears gather.
He continued.
“But I did love you.”
“I know.”
“And I'm sorry those became two different truths.”
I had no answer.
I left.
Seattle welcomed me back with rain.
Natalie opened champagne.
“To Claire Bennett.”
I smiled.
“To never marrying a Mafia boss again.”
“Very specific but wise.”
I rebuilt.
Not dramatically.
Real rebuilding was disappointingly mundane.
I rented an apartment.
Bought a used Subaru.
Started working with Natalie's design company.
For years before meeting Ethan, I had studied architectural interiors.
Marriage had gradually turned my career into a hobby.
In Seattle, it became mine again.
I designed hotel lobbies.
Restaurants.
Then a children's clinic.
The first time a client introduced me as “the lead designer,” I almost looked behind me for somebody else.
Nobody called me Mrs. Blackwood.
Nobody cared who my ex-husband was.
That freedom felt intoxicating.
Ethan did not call.
Not once.
He sent one letter three months after the divorce.
I kept it unopened for two weeks.
Then read it.
Claire,
I promised not to chase you with power.
I'm learning not to chase you with apologies either.
You know what I regret.
Repeating it every week would only make my guilt another thing you have to carry.
The Blackwood restructuring is almost finished.
The illegal side of the organization is being dismantled or absorbed into the investigations. The legitimate companies will remain.
I sold the Miami property.
That seemed obvious.
Leo says I should stop making jokes in serious letters.
I told him he's fired.
He reminded me I've fired him eleven times.
Your father would have liked that.
I hope Seattle is good to you.
I hope you're building something beautiful.
Ethan
No request.
No “come home.”
No promise to change.
I put the letter inside Dad's old notebook.
Life continued.
Nearly a year passed.
Then Natalie announced she was getting married.
Her fiancé, Ben, proposed in our office using a construction blueprint because they were both ridiculous.
I became maid of honor.
The wedding was in Chicago because Ben's family lived there.
Of course.
I considered inventing food poisoning.
Natalie refused.
“You survived a Mafia divorce. You can survive a wedding.”
So eighteen months after leaving Ethan, I returned to Chicago.
The city looked exactly the same.
I didn't.
Dad's grave was my first stop.
I sat beside him.
“I'm okay.”
Saying it aloud made me cry.
“But I miss you.”
Wind moved through the trees.
I placed fresh flowers beside the stone.
“You were right about Ethan.”
Then I laughed.
“Mostly.”
The wedding took place at a restored hotel downtown.
Not a Blackwood hotel.
I checked.
I was adjusting Natalie's veil when she suddenly looked over my shoulder.
“Oh.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Don't panic.”
I turned.
Ethan stood in the lobby downstairs.
He had not seen me.
“What is he doing here?”
“Ben invited Leo.”
Of course.
Leo had become friends with Ben during the legal madness.
“And Leo brought Ethan?”
“No.”
Natalie looked guilty.
“Ben invited Ethan.”
“You're dead.”
“Please don't ruin my wedding.”
“I'll ruin your second wedding too.”
“You're proving you belong in Chicago.”
I expected Ethan to approach me.
He didn't.
He saw me before the ceremony.
Our eyes met.
He nodded politely.
Then took his seat on the opposite side of the room.
No confrontation.
No surprise conversation.
No attempt to use the wedding as fate.
That made him harder to ignore.
He looked different.
Still handsome.
Still dangerous-looking.
But quieter.
The hard arrogance around his mouth had softened.
Later, during the reception, I found myself beside Leo at the bar.
“How is he?”
Leo smiled.
“You're asking professionally?”
“Answer before I change my mind.”
“He's annoying.”
“Good.”
“He works too much.”
“Expected.”
“He sold the casino interests.”
“I heard.”
“He turned the mansion into offices for one of the foundations.”
I stared.
“He moved?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“A townhouse.”
I almost laughed.
“Ethan Blackwood lives in a townhouse?”
“With only six bedrooms.”
“Tragic.”
Leo smiled.
“He misses you.”
My chest tightened.
“I didn't ask.”
“No.”
“Then don't.”
Leo nodded.
“Fair.”
I found Ethan outside on the terrace later.
I had not planned to.
At least that's what I told myself.
Snow drifted over Michigan Avenue.
He looked toward me.
“Claire.”
“Ethan.”
“You look good.”
“So do you.”
“Thank you.”
Awkward.
We had once slept tangled together.
Now compliments required diplomacy.
“How's Seattle?”
“Wet.”
He smiled.
“Still designing?”
“Yes.”
“I saw the pediatric clinic.”
I frowned.
“How?”
“Architectural magazine.”
“Oh.”
“It was good.”
“Thank you.”
Silence.
I looked at his left hand.
No ring.
Of course.
“You?”
“What about me?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don't want to.”
“That has never stopped men.”
He laughed.
I had missed that sound.
Dangerously.
“What about you?”
“I've dated.”
Pain flashed across his face.
He hid it quickly.
“Anyone serious?”
“No.”
His shoulders relaxed.
I noticed.
“So you came alone.”
“Yes.”
“Vanessa?”
He looked surprised.
“She lives in New York.”
“Do you speak?”
“No.”
“Good.”
That came out too fast.
Ethan looked at me.
I looked toward the city.
“I'm allowed to dislike her.”
“Yes.”
“I dislike you sometimes too.”
“I earned that more.”
I laughed.
Then stopped.
He watched me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Ethan.”
“I missed making you laugh.”
My throat tightened.
“You don't get to say things like that casually.”
“Sorry.”
“There. That's better.”
He smiled.
The music inside changed.
A slow song.
I felt suddenly seventeen.
Stupid.
Hopeful.
Terrified.
Ethan spoke softly.
“Would asking you to dance be unfair?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
I stared at him.
“You're supposed to argue.”
“I've been working on that.”
I almost smiled.
Then held out my hand.
“One dance.”
Ethan stared.
“Claire.”
“One.”
He took my hand as though touching something breakable.
We danced at the edge of the ballroom.
Not close at first.
Then closer.
My hand rested on his shoulder.
His rested carefully at my waist.
The same place his hand had been around Vanessa in the photograph.
I expected the memory to ruin everything.
It didn't.
Not entirely.
Pain remained.
But it no longer owned the entire room.
“You smell the same,” I whispered.
“That is either romantic or concerning.”
I laughed.
The song ended.
Ethan released me immediately.
“Good night, Claire.”
He walked away.
May you like
For the first time since leaving him, I was the one who watched Ethan Blackwood go.
And I didn't like how much I wanted him to turn around.
