“What do you mean?” I mean I’m tired of fighting, I said, putting on the mask of the defeated wife. You win, Lily. I want to give you what you asked for.
I want to give Blake the fifty-fifty split. I want to set up a trust for the baby. I want you guys to be safe.
Lily let out a breath, her shoulders sagging in relief. Oh, Eva, thank you. I knew you would understand.
You are so good. Let’s meet tomorrow night. I said the Copper Finch.
7:00. Tell Blake to bring the divorce papers he printed. We’ll sign everything.
We’ll celebrate your new life. Okay, she said, beaming. She hugged me again, pressing that rubber belly against me.
You are the best sister in the world. I know, I said. Go home and rest.
Don’t worry about the clinic. We’ll get you the best doctor’s money can buy starting tomorrow. She left practically skipping out the door.
cured of her miscarriage by the promise of a payday. I waited until she was gone. Then I called Nora.
“I have the smoking gun,” I said. “She’s wearing a fake belly. I have the receipt.
I have the photos.” “Oh, this is going to be fun,” Nora said, her voice dark with anticipation. “You are ready, Eva. The trap is set.” That night, I prepared a legal-sized envelope and filled it with everything the fake belly invoice, the fertility report, the postnup.
When I sealed it and felt its weight in my hands, it didn’t feel like paper. It felt like justice. Nora’s advice echoed in my head.
Let them talk first. Let them dig the hole. Let them get comfortable in their greed.
Make them say the words. Make them claim the baby is his. Make them demand the money.
And then drop the hammer. I slept soundly that night for the first time in three weeks. I didn’t dream of drowning.
I dreamed of a guillotine and I was the one holding the rope. The Copper Finch was waiting. The stage was set and my dear husband and sister were about to walk into a performance they would never forget.
The hands on the antique clock above the bar at the Copper Finch pointed to 7:00 exactly when the heavy oak doors swung open. I was sitting in the same booth as before, wearing the same dark green dress I had worn on the night my life imploded. I had debated changing, perhaps wearing a power suit to signal that this was a business transaction, but I decided against it.
I wanted them to see the woman they thought they had destroyed. I wanted them to see that the silk was unwrinkled and that the woman inside it was made of reinforced steel. They walked in and the transformation was nauseating.
Three weeks ago, they had been nervous, fidgeting like teenagers caught shoplifting. Tonight, they walked with the swagger of lottery winners who had just cashed the ticket. Blake was wearing his best navy blazer, the one I had bought him for our anniversary, and he had polished his shoes.
He guided Lily with a protective hand on the small of her back, parading her through the dining room as if she were carrying the Messiah rather than a silicone prop purchased for $149. Lily was radiant. She had tied her hair back in a soft maternal bun and was wearing a flowy pastel dress that emphasized the prosthetic bump.
She looked the part perfectly. She looked like the glowing, fertile mother to be. While I sat in the corner, the barren, cold career woman about to be discarded.
They reached the table. Blake pulled out Lily’s chair with a flourish that was entirely performative. He waited until she was settled, adjusting her napkin for her before he sat down and looked at me.
“Eva,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Thank you for agreeing to meet. I know this is hard, but I’m glad we are doing this the right way.” He signaled the waiter before I could respond.
Water for the lady, Blake instructed, pointing to Lily. Room temperature, please. Cold water upsets her stomach.
And bring a pinot noir for my wife. He hesitated on the word wife, savoring the awkwardness of it. He was playing the role of the benevolent patriarch, the man making the tough decisions for the good of his new expanding family.
I do not want wine, I said, my voice steady. I want to hear the numbers. Blake smiled.
A tight, condescending expression that suggested he forgave my rudeness because I was clearly emotional. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder. It was thin.
It was pathetic compared to the heavy envelope resting on the seat beside me. “Right,” Blake said, clasping his hands on the table. “We have been thinking a lot about what is fair.
We want you to be happy, Eva. We really do, but we have to be realistic about the needs of the baby. He opened his folder and slid a single sheet of paper toward me.
It was a spreadsheet, a very simple, very optimistic spreadsheet. The proposal is simple, Blake said, tapping the paper with his index finger. We sell the River North apartment.
The market is hot right now. We take the equity and split it fifty-fifty. That gives you a nice nest egg to find a smaller place, maybe a condo closer to your office, and it gives Lily and me enough for a down payment on a family home in the suburbs, something with a yard.
I stared at the paper. He was asking for half of the asset that my LLC owned, the asset he had never paid a dime toward. And regarding the liquid assets, Blake continued, gaining confidence when I didn’t immediately flip the table.
We know you have the investment accounts, the stocks, the bonds. Since we were married during the accumulation phase, I think a fifty-fifty split is standard, but to show good faith, I am willing to take 40%. I am willing to leave you with the majority share.
He paused, waiting for gratitude. When none came, he cleared his throat. However, he added, “Given that I will be the primary earner for our new household while Lily is nursing, and considering my commission checks are volatile, we are asking for spousal support just for three years, $5,000 a month, just until the baby is in preschool and I can stabilize my income.
$5,000 a month.” He wanted me to pay him a salary for the job of sleeping with my sister. Lily reached across the table. She didn’t try to touch me this time, likely sensing the radioactive field of hatred radiating off me.
Instead, she placed her hand on her chest, looking at me with wide, pleading eyes. “Eva, please,” she said, her voice trembling with manufactured emotion. “I know this sounds like a lot, but remember where we came from.
Remember the apartment in Ohio? Remember how mom and dad struggled? You do not want that for this baby.
You do not want your niece or nephew to grow up worrying about the electric bill.” She paused to let the guilt sink in, then pivoted to flattery. You have always been the strong one. You are the rock.
You have a big career. You have Atlas Bridge. You can make this money back in a year.
We can’t. We need this head start. If you do not do it for us, do it for mom and dad.
If we have to drag this through court, if we have to fight, it will kill them. Mom’s heart is already so weak. Do you really want to be the reason she ends up in the hospital?
It was a master stroke of emotional blackmail. She was weaponizing my own competence against me. She was arguing that because I was capable of surviving without their help, I was obligated to let them cannibalize me.
And besides, Lily added, her hand drifting down to the silicone lump under her dress. Stress is so bad for the pregnancy. The doctor said that with the timeline, since I am already entering the second trimester, I need absolute calm.
I felt the baby kick for the first time yesterday when we were arguing about bills. I do not want to put the baby through that. I froze.
My hand, which had been reaching for my water glass, stopped in midair, entering the second trimester three weeks ago during the first dinner. They had claimed this was a recent accident. They had said it happened while I was in Seattle last month.
That would make her six, maybe seven weeks pregnant. At seven weeks, the fetus is the size of a blueberry. You do not feel kicks.
