Chapter 22
“What do you want?”
He exhaled.
“To talk.”
“We can communicate through our attorneys.”
“Please don’t do that.”
I remained silent.
“Look, I made mistakes.”
I gripped the phone.
“Mistakes?”
“I handled things badly.”
“You brought Vanessa to my father’s funeral.”
“I was angry.”
“You threatened to take everything.”
“I was under pressure.”
“You tried to convince people I couldn’t manage my own affairs.”
“I thought you needed help.”
I looked toward the window.
The city lights stretched across Manhattan.
For three years, every argument had ended this way.
Caleb explained.
Caleb justified.
Caleb turned his cruelty into an understandable reaction to something I had supposedly done wrong.
And eventually, I apologized.
Not this time.
“Are you still married to Vanessa?”
I asked.
Silence.
Then he sighed.
“That situation is complicated.”
“No, Caleb.
It’s a question.”
He didn’t answer.
I felt tears gathering in my eyes.
“Did you marry her before you married me?”
“Yes.”
“And did you ever legally divorce her?”
He remained silent.
That silence was an answer I could no longer ignore, even though the court still had to establish the legal facts.
“Why?”
I whispered.
He sounded irritated.
“Eleanor, does that really matter now?”
I stared into the darkness.
“Yes.”
“Vanessa and I had history.
Things were complicated when you came along.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“When I came along?”
He sighed.
“You had a different life.
Opportunities.
Security.
Your father could open doors nobody else could.”
The words were almost casual.
As though he couldn’t hear what he was admitting.
“You married me because of my father.”
“I married you because I saw a future.”
“A wealthy future.”
“Eleanor—”
“Did you love me?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
For several seconds, there was no sound.
Then he said, “I cared about you.”
I closed my eyes.
It wasn’t the answer I had wanted.
But it was the clearest one he had ever given me.
“I hope someday you understand what you’ve done,” he added.
I looked down at my stomach.
“No, Caleb.”
My voice was steadier than I expected.
“I finally understand what you did.”
I ended the call.
Then I cried.
Not because I wanted him back.
Because I was mourning someone who had never existed in the way I believed.
Four weeks after my father’s funeral, I went into labor.
It began just after midnight.
A dull ache became a tightening pain, followed by another, and then another.