Chapter 8 - The Divorce Petition on the Kitchen Island
I reached into my leather briefcase and pulled out two crisp, thick documents bound in blue legal cardstock.
I laid the first document onto the granite island:
IN THE COURT OF COMMON PLEAS, FRANKLIN COUNTY, OHIO:
PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE & EMERGENCY MARITAL ASSET FREEZE.
Mark glanced at the heading, letting out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter.
“A divorce?! You’re divorcing me? With what money, Clare?! You just said your father left you four hundred thousand in tax debt! You can’t afford an attorney to fight me!”
I laid the second document down right beside the first:
THE IRREVOCABLE WALTER HAIL LIVING TRUST: CERTIFICATE OF BENEFICIARY ENTITLEMENT ($28,200,000.00).
Mark’s mocking laugh choked in his throat.
His eyes scanned the embossed gold seals, the letterhead of Northern Trust, and the seven-figure account balances listed under my sole, unchallengeable name.
His jaw went completely slack. His knees visibly buckled.
“Twenty... twenty-eight million...?” Mark stammered, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak. “Clare... you... you lied to me?”
“I didn't lie, Mark,” I said, looking straight through him. “I ran a stress test. And your loyalty couldn't even survive four hours without a paycheck.”
I pointed to Section 14-B of the trust agreement.
“My father knew exactly who you were. He knew you were waiting for him to die so you could take his sweat and hand it to your mother and your sister. He established this trust so that if you tried to touch a single dime, the entire estate is locked in sovereign escrow.”
Mark lunged forward, his hands reaching desperately for the paper. “Clare! Baby, listen to me! I was in shock! I was angry because I thought we were in trouble! You know how stressed I get! I love you! We’ve been together twenty-two years!”
He dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor, reaching out to grasp the hem of my coat.
“Clare, please! I quit my job! I have nothing! If you divorce me, I have nowhere to go!”
May you like
I took two clean steps backward, letting his hands fall into the empty air.
“You have gray sweatpants, Mark,” I said softly. “Go ask your mother for a room in her rental.”
