Chapter 4 - THE WIFE NOBODY REALLY KNEW
Before becoming Claire Blackwood, I was Claire Bennett.
I owned two pairs of comfortable shoes.
Drove a secondhand Honda.
Worked as an architectural conservator.
And spent my weekends restoring old theaters across Illinois.
I loved damaged buildings.
Not because they were beautiful.
Because they could be repaired without pretending the damage had never happened.
At twenty-seven, I'd completed a graduate degree in historic preservation and begun working with a nonprofit dedicated to restoring endangered public buildings.
That was where I met Adrian.
He arrived at a fundraiser wearing an expensive suit and an expression suggesting he'd rather be negotiating a hostile takeover.
I was standing beside a cracked plaster column explaining why the building's original ceiling mattered.
Adrian listened.
Then asked, "How much would restoration cost?"
I told him.
He raised an eyebrow.
"That's an expensive ceiling."
I smiled.
"History usually is."
He laughed.
And came back the following week.
For months, we talked about architecture.
Music.
Art.
Our families.
He loved my independence.
At least, he said he did.
He told me I was unlike the women his family tried to introduce him to.
I didn't want his money.
Didn't need access to his connections.
And wasn't impressed when he sent flowers expensive enough to pay my rent.
When he proposed, he offered an enormous diamond.
I refused.
Not the marriage.
The ring.
"I want something I can wear while washing dishes," I told him.
He laughed.
Then returned with the simple band I'd left on the drawing-room table.
For the first year, we were happy.
Genuinely happy.
He came home early.
Cooked terrible pasta.
Took me to historic buildings nobody else wanted to visit.
We danced barefoot in the kitchen.
Then Adrian's father died.
The family businesses passed into his control.
His responsibilities multiplied.
So did the expectations surrounding his wife.
Beatrice began asking me to host dinners.
His mother wanted me at charity galas.
Vincent said my conservation work made the family look as though we didn't have enough money to employ people.
Adrian laughed the first time.
I didn't.
Eventually, I reduced my hours.
Then stopped taking projects requiring travel.
I told myself it was temporary.
The business was under pressure.
Adrian needed support.
Our marriage mattered.
But temporary arrangements have a way of becoming permanent when the person benefiting from them never asks you to reconsider.
By our fourth anniversary, I had become very good at arranging flowers.
Remembering guests' dietary restrictions.
Smoothing over family arguments.
And smiling when people introduced me simply as Adrian's wife.
The evening he ordered me searched, I hadn't worked on a restoration project in almost seven months.
That morning, I'd received an email from a former colleague.
A historic train station in Milwaukee needed a conservation director.
They wanted me to interview.
I'd been staring at the invitation when Beatrice called.
Claire, dear, I need you downstairs. The florist has brought the wrong arrangements.
I closed the email.
Went downstairs.
And spent the day preparing another Blackwood dinner.
Now, sitting at Olivia's kitchen table with my suitcase beside the door, I opened the email again.
Dear Claire, we would still welcome a conversation about the Milwaukee restoration project.
I read the message three times.
Then answered.
Thank you. I would be delighted to discuss the position.
For the first time in four years, I made a professional decision without considering whether it would inconvenience the Blackwood family.
A strange feeling moved through me.
Not guilt.
Relief.
Then Rebecca, my attorney, called.
"Claire, I've reviewed your preliminary statement."
"Yes?"
"We should discuss the messages and the accusations. But there's something else I want you to know."
My heart tightened.
"What?"
"Adrian's family has begun circulating the allegation that you stole the diamonds."
I closed my eyes.
Rebecca continued.
"The damage to your reputation may already be significant."
I stared toward the window.
I had given those people four years of my life.
And in less than twelve hours, they were prepared to turn me into a thief.
I took a breath.
"Then I want the truth documented."
Rebecca nodded.
"Good."
"And one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I want to know how the diamonds were acquired."
A pause.
Rebecca sounded surprised.
"Why?"
I looked toward the photograph of the Duca necklace on my phone.
"Because everyone keeps talking about how valuable they are."
I swallowed.
May you like
"But nobody ever talks about where they came from."
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