The first thing I noticed about the twelve-million-dollar check was that
Charles Whitmore had already signed it
.
He had signed away more money than most people would see in ten lifetimes before I had even entered the room.
Which meant my marriage had been priced, packaged, and prepared for disposal before anyone bothered to ask whether I wanted it to end.
I stood in the library of the Whitmore estate in Oyster Bay, soaked from an unexpected September rain, staring at the cream-colored check lying on the polished mahogany table.
$12,000,000.
Payable to Evelyn Hart Whitmore.
My husband sat six feet away.
Julian did not look at the money.
He looked at me.
His eyes were red.
Beside him sat Vanessa Blake, his twenty-nine-year-old executive assistant, one hand resting protectively over the unmistakable curve of her pregnant stomach.
Twenty-one weeks.
Triplets.
Three boys.
