Z

Six weeks passed.

Ariana did not return to Vale House.

I did not ask her to.

Instead, she rented a townhouse in Lincoln Park.

A place with white walls, narrow stairs, a small garden, and absolutely nothing I had chosen.

She bought the furniture herself.

She hired her own security company after consulting Miles.

She reopened her independent bank account.

And, without telling me beforehand, she hired a divorce attorney.

When the papers arrived, I stared at them for twenty minutes.

Then I signed.

No argument.

No negotiation.

No attempt to hide assets behind trusts or holding companies.

My lawyer nearly had a heart attack.

“You’re giving her the house in Wisconsin?”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t request it.”

“I know.”

“You’re transferring half the marital investment portfolio.”

“Yes.”

“She requested significantly less.”

“I know.”

He lowered his glasses.

“Are you attempting to buy forgiveness?”

I looked at him.

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because she spent seven years supporting the creation of wealth my accountants like to pretend appeared because I worked hard.”

He stared.

I signed another page.

“She gets her half.”

When Ariana called that evening, she sounded angry.

“You changed the settlement.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t ask for that much.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want guilt money.”

“It isn’t guilt money.”

“Then what is it?”

“Yours.”

Silence.

“Ariana, I became richer while you became more isolated. I’m not going to pretend your contribution is impossible to calculate, therefore worth nothing.”

For once, she had no response.

Finally she whispered, “Thank you.”

It was the first thank-you she had given me since leaving.

It meant more than any signature I had collected in my career.

The federal investigation expanded.

Lucas Harrington resigned from three corporate boards.

Grant accepted a cooperation agreement.

Two Vale executives were fired.

And Vanessa vanished from Chicago society.

Not literally.

Women like Vanessa did not disappear.

They relocated their humiliation.

She spent three weeks in Palm Beach before returning unexpectedly.

I found her waiting outside Ariana’s townhouse.

That was the closest I came to forgetting every promise I had made.

I stepped from my car.

“Move away from the door.”

Vanessa turned.

Her face looked different without cameras nearby.

Tired.

“You still think I’m the monster.”

“I think you illegally accessed my wife’s medical records.”

“My lawyer says you cannot prove that.”

“My wife.”

Vanessa laughed.

“She filed for divorce.”

I moved closer.

“That does not make her less important.”

“Of course it does. That’s how this works.”

“No. That’s how you work.”

Her expression hardened.

“Ariana destroyed my family.”

“Your father destroyed your family.”

“She found the records.”

“Because your father committed crimes.”

“She could have kept quiet.”

“So could you.”

Vanessa stared at me.

Then something ugly entered her expression.

“You know she was planning to leave before you chose me.”

I stopped.

“What?”

Vanessa smiled.

There it was.

One last weapon.

“She had an apartment application in Boston.”

I said nothing.

“She contacted her old law firm. She was leaving you.”

For one terrible second, the old Adrian returned.

Suspicion.

Control.

The instinct to demand explanations.

Then I remembered Ariana’s words.

Choose who you become when nobody is watching.

I opened the townhouse gate.

“If she was planning to leave, she had reasons.”

Vanessa blinked.

“You’re not even going to ask?”

“I’ll ask her if she wants to tell me.”

“You’ve become pathetic.”

“No.”

I looked at Vanessa.

“I became expensive to manipulate.”

She slapped me.

I barely moved.

The front door opened.

Ariana stood there.

Eight months pregnant.

She had seen everything.

Vanessa looked from Ariana to me.

“You deserve each other.”

Ariana’s expression remained calm.

“No.”

She rested one hand over our daughter.

“We deserved better than what both of you did.”

Vanessa’s face tightened.

Then she left.

I remained outside.

Ariana watched me.

“You didn’t know about Boston?”

“No.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Yes.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

I continued.

“At myself.”

She looked away.

“I got the application after the night of your father’s memorial.”

I remembered that night.

Ariana had asked me to come upstairs.

I stayed drinking with investors until three in the morning.

“You were leaving.”

“I considered it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She smiled sadly.

“I found out I was pregnant.”

The irony was unbearable.

The child I had never known about had once kept my wife from leaving me.

Then my behavior had driven her out anyway.

“I’m sorry.”

“You say that a lot now.”

“I have a large inventory.”

That made her laugh.

A real laugh.

Only three seconds.

But real.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Ariana noticed.

The air changed.

Dangerously.

I stepped backward.

“I should go.”

“Adrian.”

I stopped.

“There’s a childbirth class Saturday.”

My brain stopped functioning.

“What?”

“Margaret says I’m going to regret refusing to attend.”

“You want me there?”

“I want my daughter’s father to understand what happens when she arrives.”

I nodded too quickly.

“Yes.”

Ariana almost smiled.

“You have to sit on the floor.”

“I can sit on floors.”

“For two hours.”

“I own knees.”

“Debatable.”

Saturday morning, twelve couples watched Chicago’s most feared billionaire attempt breathing exercises while sitting cross-legged on a foam mat.

I hated every second.

Ariana enjoyed every second.

When the instructor told partners to practice lower-back pressure, I waited for permission.

Ariana nodded.

I placed my hands against her back.

She leaned into the pressure.

My throat tightened.

For seven years, touching her had been natural.

Now every inch required trust.

I understood how valuable that made it.

After class, we walked along the lake.

Snow had begun falling.

Ariana wore a red scarf.

“You remembered,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“The cinnamon coffee.”

I handed her the cup.

“One pump cinnamon. Decaf.”

“You hated it.”

“I hated many things because enjoying them would have required admitting you were right.”

She laughed.

Then our daughter kicked.

Ariana grabbed my hand automatically.

Pressed it to her stomach.

Neither of us moved.

Snow landed in her hair.

I looked at her face.

She looked at mine.

For one dangerous second, I thought she might kiss me.

Instead she whispered, “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“Yes.”

“So was I.”

That was worse.

She stepped away.

“Thinking about you doesn’t mean I’m ready.”

“I know.”

“I may never be.”

“I know.”

Ariana studied me.

“You’re making it difficult to hate you.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“What are you trying to do?”

I looked down at the hand that had just felt our daughter move.

“Make sure she never meets the man you had to leave.”

That night, Miles called.

“We found Nolan Reese.”

I stood.

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Milwaukee.”

“And?”

“He’s talking.”

The pause told me there was more.

“He says Vanessa hired him originally.”

“I know that.”

“But the break-in at Margaret’s house wasn’t Vanessa’s order.”

“Grant?”

“No.”

My pulse slowed.

“Who?”

Miles exhaled.

“Lucas Harrington.”

I looked toward the dark city.

“Why?”

“Because Ariana still has the one thing the federal investigators haven’t found.”

“What?”

“A ledger.”

I remembered Grant’s words.

Ariana found something.

“Miles.”

“Yes?”

“If Lucas knows she has it…”

“He won’t stop.”

I was already reaching for my coat.

But this time, before calling security, I called Ariana first.

And I asked what she wanted me to do.