That is it. No apartment money, no stock options, no $5,000 a month.” Blake looked up at me, his eyes wet. Ava, you can’t do this.
I have nowhere to go. I have no savings. How am I supposed to live?
You should have thought about that before you decided to sleep with my sister, I said. But wait, I am not done. I pulled a second, thinner document from the envelope.
Do you remember the loan agreement? I asked. The one for the $42,000 I paid to clear your debts before we got married and the $25,000 for the Lexus accident and the interest that has been accruing for five years.
I slid the paper across the table. It landed on top of the postnup. According to this contract, which is also notarized, those were not gifts.
They were collectible loans. That means I can demand repayment in full at any time. I leaned forward, my face inches from his.
I am demanding it now, Blake. The total with interest is roughly $84,000. I could sue you for it.
I could garnish your wages for the next 10 years. I could take your truck. I could make sure you never qualify for a credit card again.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bones. Blake was trembling visibly now. Lily was staring at him with a look of pure unadulterated horror.
She wasn’t looking at him with love. She wasn’t looking at him as the father of her child. She was looking at him like he was a bad investment she needed to dump immediately.
You broke, Lily whispered. The word hung in the air, ugly and raw. You are completely broke.
I, Eva. Please, Blake begged, ignoring Lily. He reached for my hand, but I pulled it away.
I can’t pay that, you know. I can’t pay that. Have mercy.
We were married for five years. Does that mean nothing? It meant everything to me, I said softly.
That is why I paid your debts. That is why I saved you from jail. That is why I built this life for us.
But it clearly meant nothing to you. I sat back, smoothing my dress. However, I said, letting the word hang there.
I am a reasonable woman. I might be persuaded to forgive the debt. I might be persuaded to let you walk away with just your clothes and no lawsuit hanging over your head.
Blake’s head snapped up. How? I will do anything.
Tell me what to do. Sign the divorce papers exactly as Nora drafted them. I said, “You leave with nothing.
You will never contact me again. You admit to the adultery so the divorce is granted immediately. Do that and I will tear up the loan agreement.
You will be poor, Blake. But you will be free of debt. That is the only severance package you are getting from me.
Blake nodded vigorously. I will sign. I will sign right now.
Where is it? Blake. Lily shrieked.
She grabbed his arm, her fingernails digging into his jacket. Are you crazy? You’re just going to give up.
What about us? What about the house? What about the baby?
You promised you would take care of us. Blake turned on her. And for the first time, I saw the ugliness of his character directed at someone other than me.
He shoved her hand off his arm. Shut up, Lily. He snapped.
Do you not hear her? She owns everything. The apartment is an LLC.
I have nothing. If I do not sign this, she is going to sue me for $80,000. I will be bankrupt.
I can’t buy you a house. I can’t even buy you dinner. You coward.
Lily yelled, forgetting to whisper. People at nearby tables turned to look. You said you had a plan.
You said she was soft. You said she would just pay us to go away. She played us.
Blake hissed back. She had this planned for years. It is a trap.
I watched them. I watched the love of a lifetime disintegrate in under five minutes when the oxygen of money was cut off. It was pathetic.
It was satisfying, but it wasn’t over. I picked up my wine glass again, swirling the red liquid. I looked at Lily, whose face was flushed with rage and panic.
She realized that her golden goose was actually a cooked turkey. She was realizing that she was stuck with a broken, spineless man and a lie that was about to become very expensive to maintain. I cleared my throat.
They both stopped arguing and looked at me, remembering who held the whip. “You two seem upset,” I said calmly. “And I understand it is a shock to find out that your retirement plan has been cancelled, but you should save some of that energy.” I reached into the envelope one last time.
Because, I said, my hand closing around the final stack of papers, the medical report, and the photos of the silicone belly. That was only the first half of the secret. We haven’t even talked about the baby yet.
I saw Lily’s eyes widen. I saw the blood drain from her face, leaving her looking like a ghost in a pastel dress. She knew in that split second.
She knew that I knew. And trust me, I said, pulling the papers out and holding them face down on the table, my hand resting on top of them like a lid on a box of vipers. This part is much, much worse.
I kept my hand on the final stack of papers, feeling the cool surface of the top sheet against my palm. The restaurant was warm, filled with the smell of roasted garlic and red wine, but the air around our table was absolute zero. Blake was still reeling from the financial blow, his face pale and slick with sweat.
Lily was glaring at him, her chest heaving, trapped between her greed and the sudden realization that her accomplice was useless. “You said there was a second half,” Blake whispered, his voice cracking. He looked like a man who had already been shot but was still waiting to fall down.
What else could you possibly have? You already took the money. You took the house.
I took the money because it was mine. I corrected him gently. But this is about what you think is yours.
I flipped the stack of papers over. The top document was not a contract. It was a medical report.
I slid it across the tablecloth, navigating it around the vase of fresh flowers that Blake had so optimistically ordered. It came to rest directly under his nose. Do you recognize the logo, Blake?
I asked. The Fertility Institute of Chicago. We went there last year.
You complained about the parking. You complained about the nurse. You complained that the sample cup was too small.
Blake stared at the paper. His eyes darted back and forth trying to make sense of the clinical font. “We never got the results,” he muttered.
“Mom had her stroke. We forgot.” “We did not get them,” I said. “But they mailed them.
They sat in the safe for a year. I opened them three days ago.” I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a whisper that was louder than a scream. Read the diagnosis, Blake.
Read the line at the bottom. He read it. I watched his lips move.
Aospermia, complete absence of sperm, sterility. The doctor noted your history of mumps orchitis when you were 14, I continued, reciting the facts I had memorized. He wrote that the damage was catastrophic.
He wrote that your chances of conceiving a child naturally are not just low, they are zero, statistically impossible. I sat back, letting the words hang in the air like smoke. “So,” I said, turning my gaze slowly toward Lily.
She was frozen, her hand clutching the wine glass so hard I thought it might shatter. That brings us to an interesting question. If Blake is sterile, and has been sterile since he was a teenager, then who exactly is inside your stomach, Lily?
The silence that followed was heavy. It was the kind of silence that precedes an explosion. Blake looked up from the paper.
He looked at me, his eyes wide with confusion. Then he turned his head slowly, robotically toward Lily. The realization hit him in waves.
First confusion, then disbelief, and finally a rage so pure it made his features distort. “You said it was mine,” Blake whispered. His voice was shaking.
“You swore. You told me the dates. You told me it was a miracle.” It is a mistake, Lily stammered, her face turning a blotchy red.
That test is wrong. Doctors make mistakes all the time. It is your baby, Blake.
