Chapter 4 - THE HONEYMOON DOCUMENTS
We were supposed to fly to Italy on Monday.
We did not.
Luca still went to the airport.
That surprised me.
He called from the terminal.
I did not answer.
Then text:
WE NEED TO TALK BEFORE YOU DO SOMETHING PERMANENT.
I sent the message to Mara.
No reply.
Thirty minutes later:
YOU’RE LETTING PHOEBE DESTROY OUR MARRIAGE.
Then:
MY MOM SAYS YOUR LAWYER IS FILLING YOUR HEAD WITH GARBAGE.
Then:
YOU KNOW I WOULD NEVER ACTUALLY HURT YOU.
I looked at the bruise on my cheek.
The body is occasionally useful during arguments with denial.
Then Luca sent:
WE HAVE DOCUMENTS TO SIGN FOR THE ESTATE PLAN. THEY’RE ALREADY PAID FOR.
There it was.
I forwarded it.
Mara called immediately.
“Do not sign anything.”
“I gathered that.”
We subpoenaed? In civil proceedings later, not instant. But Luca’s estate lawyer contacted mine after receiving notice of representation.
The documents had been drafted by an estate-planning firm at Luca’s request.
Not inherently sinister.
Married couples sign estate plans every day.
But these were unusual.
One document would have appointed Luca as my financial agent under a broad durable power of attorney.
Another would have given him limited voting authority over certain privately held shares if I became incapacitated.
A third changed beneficiary designations on a life-insurance structure.
Individually?
Potentially normal.
Together with the prenup?
More complicated.
Because my prenup explicitly required independent review before any post-marriage agreement affecting Carroway shares.
Luca had scheduled the estate documents for signature in Italy.
No Mara.
No independent counsel.
His explanation later:
Convenience.
Maybe.
Then we found Wendy’s emails.
Wendy had been corresponding with Luca about the estate plan.
She wrote:
Once she signs the POA, at least somebody sensible can act if pregnancy or stress makes her irrational.
I read that twice.
I was not pregnant.
Not yet.
Wendy apparently expected we would try soon.
Another:
The Carroway deal is moving faster than expected. You cannot be married to twelve percent of a company and have no influence.
That sentence almost impressed me with its audacity.
You cannot be married to twelve percent of a company.
As though marriage transferred governance.
Luca replied:
Her prenup lawyer made it airtight.
Wendy:
Then stop treating the prenup like scripture.
Luca:
I’ll handle Jessi.
Handle.
I stared at the word.
Mara asked:
“Do you want a break?”
“No.”
I had spent eighteen months taking breaks from reality.
I wanted the whole thing.
Another email:
Wendy:
Do NOT start another fight before the wedding. We need five clean years.
Luca:
Jesus, Mom. I know.
Five clean years.
There was my marriage reduced to a vesting schedule.
I started laughing.
Mara looked worried.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Correct.”
Better.
Did this prove Luca married me only for money?
No.
Life rarely gives clean motives.
It proved money had become part of his decision-making.
Enough to conceal.
Enough to plan around.
Enough that Wendy warned him not to jeopardize the rider.
And then he did.
Over cake.
Because for one second, controlling me felt more important than three million dollars.
That told me more about Luca than the loan did.
The next legal development came quickly.
Luca filed a response alleging the cake incident was a mutually understood wedding prank that had accidentally become rougher than intended.
Then he provided photographs from another wedding where a bride pushed frosting onto a groom’s face.
Mara stared at the filing.
“Excellent.”
I frowned.
“How is that excellent?”
“He is committing to a story.”
Evidence loves committed stories.
We had:
Video.
My medical documentation.
My contemporaneous statement.
Prior photos.
Texts.
Recorder.
And perhaps most importantly:
Luca’s whisper.
“Smile, Jessi. Don’t embarrass me.”
A joke does not usually require a threat afterward.
Then my father called.
“I need to tell you something.”
My stomach tightened.
He had liked Luca.
Defended him.
When I once complained Luca became jealous, Dad said:
“Marriage is adjustment.”
I had resented him for that.
“What?”
“Luca came to see me two months ago.”
I froze.
“Why?”
“He asked questions about Carroway.”
“What questions?”
“What happens to your shares if you die.”
My entire body went cold.
“Dad.”
“I thought it was estate planning.”
“Maybe it was.”
“Jessi…”
His voice broke.
“I told him.”
Of course he did.
He was my father.
Luca was going to be his son-in-law.
Dad explained that my shares were held through a trust structure.
If I died, they would not automatically transfer outright to a spouse.
Most would remain under trust terms for designated family beneficiaries and charitable structures unless I changed my plan.
“What did Luca say?”
“He looked surprised.”
Then:
“He asked whether marriage changed anything.”
My father had said no.
After that conversation, Luca’s pressure about post-wedding estate documents increased.
I sat completely still.
Mara said:
“Again, don’t jump beyond evidence.”
“I know.”
But my instincts were screaming.
Not that Luca planned to kill me.
There was no evidence of that.
I refused to turn fear into fiction.
The uglier truth was simpler:
He believed marriage should create access.
To my time.
My phone.
My body.
My business.
My assets.
My decisions.
The cake was not an isolated joke.
It was the physical version of the same belief.
Mine.
My wife.
My rules.
Then Calder Private Capital sent notice to Luca’s company.
Because the Carroway participation payment was now disputed and his divorce had become public among lenders, the company had to provide updated financial information.
The cake had not called his loan.
His representations had.
But Luca blamed me anyway.
He sent one final message that night:
YOU’RE DESTROYING EVERYTHING I BUILT OVER ONE STUPID JOKE.
I stared.
Then typed:
No.
Deleted it.
He did not need my argument.
May you like
He needed consequences.
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