Chapter 5 - The Woman in the Middle
Julian arrived with two security specialists before midnight.
He read the messages once.
Then looked at Ethan.
“You should have told her eighteen months ago.”
Ethan laughed bitterly.
“You knew?”
“I knew Vale collected leverage. I didn’t know Naomi was on his list.”
“You hired her.”
“Because she’s good.”
“Convenient.”
“Stop.”
Both men looked at me.
I had never understood how exhausting it was to become the subject of two men’s argument until that moment.
“I am standing right here.”
Julian’s expression changed first.
“Sorry.”
Ethan followed more slowly.
“Me too.”
“Good. Now everybody sits down.”
They did.
That was oddly satisfying.
By two in the morning, we understood enough to be frightened.
Marcus Vale was under federal investigation, but several crucial financial records had disappeared. Someone believed Ethan possessed copies.
He did.
Of course he did.
Ethan had preserved the original due-diligence archive.
“Where?”
“Safe.”
I stared at him.
“Your definition of safe has become questionable.”
Julian almost smiled.
Ethan did not.
The archive could establish that several Halcyon subsidiaries had manipulated property values before acquiring distressed buildings.
But releasing it prematurely could compromise an investigation.
Vale apparently believed threatening me would force Ethan to surrender it.
“So why involve Julian?” I asked.
Julian answered.
“Because Vale wants to know whether Cross Meridian has a copy too.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
Ethan studied him.
“I believe you.”
Julian raised an eyebrow.
“That sounded painful.”
“It was.”
For the next week, my life became absurdly controlled.
Security downstairs.
Security outside Cross Meridian.
A car to work.
Another home.
But I refused to disappear.
That became important.
Because Marcus Vale’s greatest weapon was not violence.
It was fear.
He wanted people isolated.
Ashamed.
Quiet.
I knew something about being made invisible.
I had no intention of cooperating twice.
Meanwhile, my separation from Ethan became public.
A gossip column posted photographs from the Bellmont gala and described me as Ethan Whitmore’s “estranged wife,” stunning thousands of people who apparently had not known Ethan possessed one.
The internet did what it always does.
Invented.
Speculated.
Judged.
Some called me a gold digger.
Others called Julian my revenge boyfriend.
One headline asked:
WHO IS THE MYSTERY WIFE ETHAN WHITMORE KEPT SECRET?
Mystery wife.
I stared at it.
Then I laughed.
“What?” Julian asked.
We were eating takeout in a conference room.
“I was married for seven years and somehow I’m the mysterious one.”
He looked at me for a moment.
“Do you want me to issue a statement?”
“No.”
“Cross Meridian can clarify that our relationship is professional.”
I smiled.
“Is it?”
He became very still.
The question had escaped before I could stop it.
For three months, Julian had been careful.
No pressure.
No flirting I could not walk away from.
No attempt to turn my loneliness into opportunity.
But something existed between us.
We both knew it.
“I don’t know,” he said.
I appreciated the answer.
“I’m still married.”
“I know.”
“I’m angry.”
“I know.”
“I don’t trust myself completely.”
“I know that too.”
“Do you know everything?”
“No. For example, I have no idea why you put mustard on French fries.”
I laughed.
Then the laughter faded.
“Julian.”
“Yes?”
“Why haven’t you kissed me?”
His eyes held mine.
“Because I want the first time I kiss you to be about wanting me, not punishing him.”
I looked away because suddenly breathing required concentration.
That evening, Ethan was waiting in the lobby of my building.
He held a cardboard box.
“What’s that?”
“Your things.”
My stomach dropped.
“Oh.”
“I thought you might want them.”
Upstairs, I opened it.
Books.
A scarf.
My grandmother’s recipe cards.
Photographs.
At the bottom was the courthouse wedding picture.
Not hidden anymore.
Ethan picked it up.
“We looked twelve.”
“We looked broke.”
“We were broke.”
I smiled despite myself.
His thumb moved over the frame.
“I was happy.”
“So was I.”
He looked at me.
“I’m not going to fight the divorce.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I signed Rachel’s settlement proposal.”
I had expected war.
Arguments over property.
Public-relations games.
Anything except surrender.
“Why?”
“Because loving you doesn’t entitle me to keep you.”
My eyes burned.
Ethan continued.
“I spent three months thinking Cross stole you.”
I said nothing.
“Nobody stole you. I abandoned the space beside me and got angry when somebody else treated it like it mattered.”
That was the closest Ethan had come to understanding.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
This time, I believed him.
Not enough to return.
Enough to mourn.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His face drained of color.
“What happened?”
He looked at me.
“Someone broke into Whitmore Capital.”
“The archive?”
“Still there.”
“Then what did they take?”
His eyes dropped to the cardboard box.
“Nothing.”
He looked genuinely frightened.
“They left something.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
“Of whom?”
“You.”
My pulse jumped.
Ethan swallowed.
“It was taken seven years ago.”
The night of our courthouse wedding.
May you like
And written across the bottom in black ink were four words:
SHE WAS ALWAYS THE KEY.
