Chapter 2
It was almost fascinating.
Almost.
“Your banker said a legal notice was issued this morning,” he continued. “He mentioned a marital asset protection agreement and a change in the status of certain company shares.”
He leaned forward.
“Those shares are mine.”
“No,” I said quietly. “Some of them are yours.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
I set my cup down.
“It means you should have read the documents you signed eight years ago.”
His face changed.
I watched the memory return to him in pieces.
The afternoon before our wedding, Carter had sat in his father's study with a stack of agreements prepared by the family attorney. He had insisted on reviewing every page because he didn't want me claiming a portion of the Hale family fortune if our marriage failed.
I remembered the way he had looked at me across that polished mahogany desk.
*You understand that everything I've built belongs to me, right?*
I had nodded.
He had mistaken my silence for surrender.
What Carter never understood was that I had been raised by a woman who taught me that a signature was not a decoration. It was a promise, an obligation, and sometimes a weapon against the person who believed he was too powerful to be held accountable.
My father had been a corporate attorney. Before he died, he taught me to read the paragraphs people hurried through.
Especially the paragraphs they insisted didn't matter.
And Clause 14 had mattered from the beginning.
“Evelyn.” Carter's voice was suddenly quieter. “What exactly does Clause 14 do?”
I reached for my phone.
“Ask your attorney.”
“I am asking you.”
“And I'm telling you to call your attorney.”
He stood so abruptly that his chair scraped across the floor.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“Then stop acting like you're enjoying it!”
For the first time, I allowed myself to look directly at him without wondering whether my expression would upset him.
“I'm not enjoying anything, Carter. I'm simply no longer afraid of you.”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Then his phone rang again.
This time, the caller was his mother.
He rejected the call.
A second later, it rang again.
He rejected it once more.
I almost smiled.
Patricia Hale had spent eight years treating her son like a king and me like a servant who had somehow wandered into the palace. Now, apparently, she had discovered that even kings needed their bankers to answer the phone.