Chapter 3

I turned around and met Tristram's eyes.

He looked at me the way you'd look at a stranger who had suddenly been swapped out for someone else.

"Aria."

His voice was low, worn down by something long and grinding.

"What have the Hensons sent you to take this time?"

"The title to the downtown property? The east-side commercial complex? Or shares in Stephens Group?"

"Just say it. You don't have to put on a show."

I looked at him.

This man who was willing to live his whole life as a joke.

I walked over.

Under his wary stare, I reached out and pressed my hand against his rolled-up cuff.

Beneath that fabric, dusted with sawdust and wood shavings.

Was a forearm, firm and strong.

And it was covered in old scars, cut over and over by a plane blade.

His whole body went rigid, like an animal backed into a corner.

"Tristram, listen to me."

I looked up at him and said it word by word.

"I don't want the land. I don't want the shares. I want money least of all."

"I want you."

"And our daughter."

"From today on, anyone who lays a finger on you or on her, I'll destroy them."

His pupils shrank all at once.

He stared at me, hard, as if he could see straight through my face.

But he found nothing.

Because every word I'd said was true.

"...Insane."

He said the word under his breath.

Then took a step back, pulling his forearm free of my hand.

Turned and went upstairs.

His steps were quick, his spine held rigidly straight.

At the turn of the stairs he paused, without looking back.

"Tomorrow's the Henson family dinner. Don't forget."

"The divorce agreement is in the study. Fill in whatever terms you want."

Divorce?

In his dreams.

That night, Tristram didn't come back to the master bedroom.

After I'd coaxed our daughter to sleep, I carried a cup of warm milk out to his workshop in the backyard.

The door wasn't locked.

Inside, an old-fashioned desk lamp burned, the light a dim yellow.

The air was thick with the smell of pine and tung oil.

Tristram stood at the workbench, a plane blade in his hand.

Smoothing down a block of wood.

He'd changed into a clean black T-shirt.

His hair still wasn't fully dry, water beading down from his temple.

Hearing my footsteps, the blade stopped.

He didn't turn around.

"Get out."

I ignored him.

I went to the low cabinet beside the workbench and saw the divorce agreement.

Opened it.

In the column for the husband's assets, he'd left himself almost nothing.

Eighty percent of Stephens Group's holdings, signed over entirely to me.

In my last life, egged on by Samantha, I'd signed it.

Then handed every asset over to the Hensons to "manage."

Left Tristram to walk out with nothing at all.

I picked up the agreement.

Tristram finally turned around.

He looked at the stack of papers in my hand, not a ripple in his eyes.

"Sign it."

"Take it to old Mr. Henson tomorrow for a look. The day after, we'll go to the county records office."

His voice was flat as dead water.

"Once you sign, you're free."

Right in front of him, I gripped the stack of papers in both hands.

And tore.

The sound of the paper ripping was crisp in the quiet of the night.

Tristram's hand froze midair.

I threw the pieces up.

The scraps fell like wood shavings.

Drifting onto his shoulder, settling on the workbench, scattering among the wood on the floor.

"Tristram, don't imagine for one second you're getting away from me. Not in this life."

He didn't move.

The silence stretched on.

Then he bent down and began picking the scraps off the floor, one piece at a time.

That movement.

It was exactly like the way, a few hours earlier, our daughter had knelt in the scattered wood shavings to gather up her test paper.

Something clenched around my chest.

I dropped to my knees.

Pressed my hand over his.

"Tristram, I'm not insane, and I'm not acting."

"I don't want the Hensons anymore. I only want the two of you."

The muscles in his arm went taut, and he yanked his hand back.

The force sent me toppling backward.

Tristram stood up.

The lamplight cut his face into one half lit, one half dark.

"Aria, stop playing with me."

"We've been married seven years."

"Do you really think I can still believe you?"

He picked up the plane blade from the workbench, turned, and gave me his back.

"I'm truly tired."

"And I've made my peace with letting us both go."

"Nine a.m. the day after tomorrow. The county records office."

He paused a beat.

"Be there."

The workshop door was pulled gently shut from outside.

I sat there among the scattered paper and sawdust, and didn't go after him.

Seven years of debts.

Seven years of wounds.

Not something a single "I'm sorry" could smooth away.

It didn't matter.

He didn't believe me, so I'd show him.

One day at a time. Slowly.