Mogul (Manhattan #2)(57)

He turns to Cordelia. “If you really want to take this to court, by all means we can,” he says. “However, I can assure you it will be to your detriment, financially speaking. Mr. Ford’s offer is extremely generous, given the circumstances. And we have solid proof of your affair.”

“Proof?” she snorts. Her haughty sneer makes me want to throttle her. “Going through my credit card statements doesn’t prove anything. And if Barry wants to testify, I have ways of discouraging him.”

She’s drumming her long, manicured talons on the table, looking smug, but I know her better than that and I can tell she’s nervous.

“Technically, it’s not your credit card, is it?” Wahlberg cuts in, matter-of-factly. “But that’s irrelevant at this point.”

She raises her eyebrow at me and her voice softens. “Ian, we could forget about all this silliness and go back to how we used to be. Summers in Europe, winters in the Caribbean. You can’t deny what great times we had.”

I shake my head. I have no idea what to say. She just doesn’t get it. We’re past the point of no return. There’s no going back.

Wahlberg retrieves a large brown envelope from his briefcase and hands it to her without a word. We watch her closely as she opens it.

She pulls out the typewritten, signed note inside, then flicks through the pages, her eyes growing wide with horror. Barry provided us with tapes and images of their affair. And it’s all in there.

“How did you…?” she starts, but her voice trails off and I can’t help but feel disgusted.

I hadn’t been keen on getting the written testimony from Barry, my accountant, but Wahlberg convinced me it was necessary. By the look on her face, he may have been right.

She’s glowering at my lawyer, and at me, her face flushed with anger. He goes to take the envelope back from her, but she grabs it from him and starts ripping it to pieces in her fury.

“There’s an additional note in the settlement,” he tells her, pointing to a short paragraph at the bottom of the paperwork. “All copies of Barry’s testimony will be destroyed, along with the video and photographs. As long as you sign.”

“Was this your idea?” she practically spits at me. “I can’t believe it’s come to this, Ian. Really?”

Her eyes are pure thunder as she realizes her circumstances, and even I’m surprised at Wahlberg’s rather bullish methods. But I’m beyond playing nice. I’ve tried that for the last year and it hasn’t gotten us anywhere.

Cordelia glances at Goldberg, who pushes the pen back in her direction, knowing there’s no way out of this.

She picks up the pen. I can hardly breathe as, at last, I watch her sign the goddamn divorce papers with an angry squiggle that almost tears the pages.

I wait for a final outburst from her, some spiteful insult or threat. But she composes herself remarkably quickly, dabbing at her damp cheeks with a tissue. Wahlberg takes out another set of papers. “The paperwork for the purchase of the business, as discussed.”

“You’re really putting what you have left into this?” Cordelia shoots me a shocked glance.

“It’s only money. I started with less than what I have now. I’ll make do.”

“I’m jealous.”

“I know. And I don’t care.”

She signs those papers as well and picks up her handbag, stuffed with shreds of the torn papers and envelope, and storms out of the office, slamming the door as she leaves.

Wahlberg looks at me, a satisfied smile on his face. Even Goldberg looks relieved.

I shake Wahlberg’s hand, thanking him, before I shake Goldberg’s hand and part ways.

And then I breathe. Long and deep, all the stress and anxiety and angst from the last year vanishing. I’m finally taking a good, clean breath again. Finally, free.

I expected to feel weightless. Like celebrating. And yes, there’s relief, a shit ton of it. But a part of me mourns what went down in there. It mourns the girl my ex-wife used to be, the guy I used to be. Because the people who signed the marriage contract years ago were so damn different than the ones who are stepping out of this building.

I tell myself I’m not going to let myself grow apart from the woman I love again. I tell myself I’m going to hang on tight to her and never let go. Because one thing I learned from my marriage is that, even though you think love is enough to feed on, enough to hold a marriage together, it’s not. Communication, understanding, patience, loyalty—that’s the stuff that makes it last.

I regret that I didn’t know this before I let my work consume me, and I let my wife’s ambition consume her.

As I flag down the first cab I see, I smell that familiar perfume once more and turn to face Cordelia. She waited for me. Fuck. It’s typical that she can’t resist a final word, but nothing she says makes any difference now.

“So, you’re going to go and play house with your new little strumpet?” she demands angrily.

“I might, if you hadn’t tainted the word house for me.”

“Fuck you, Ian.”

“Back at you, Cordelia.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s getting into. You’re emotionally unavailable. Even to me, and I’ve known you for years. All you want is to work.”

“Maybe. Because I actually cared about your happiness and your safety. But that’s long gone.”