Chapter 3
I woke at 6:12 to the sound of the ice machine down the hall. I was still in the beaded gown, the top beads digging into my chest where I'd rolled onto my side. The Hampton comforter was too thin. My phone showed a missed call from a 212 number and a voicemail. I sat up and my back ached.
The voicemail was not my husband. "Hi Claire, this is Dana Ortiz from Ortiz & Bell. Your husband retained us last week for a confidential consultation. Since you've now reached out, I need to disclose that conflict before we schedule. Please call me."
Last week. He'd retained a divorce lawyer last week and tonight he'd said nothing happened. I played it again to be sure I'd heard right. I hadn't even called a lawyer yet. I'd only searched "divorce lawyer Manhattan consultation" at 2 a.m. and filled a form.
I took a shower and changed into the jeans and sweater I'd packed. The gown I hung on the bathroom door, the beads ticking against the wood. At 7:30 I walked to a diner on Lexington, ordered coffee and toast I didn't eat, and called Dana Ortiz back.
"Ms. Ortiz, it's Claire," I said when she answered. "You said my husband retained you last week?"
A pause. Papers shuffling. "Mr. Ryan Claire - sorry, Mr. Ryan - came in Tuesday for a preliminary consult. No filing, no retainer beyond the consultation fee. But under our rules I can't represent you. I can refer you."
The diner smelled like bacon and cleaning spray. The waitress refilled my coffee without asking.
"Did he say why?" I asked.
"I'm not able to share that," she said, kind but firm. "I'll text you two names who are excellent and available today."
She texted within a minute: Priya Desai and Michael Cho. I called Priya Desai's office. A receptionist said she had an 11 a.m. cancellation. I took it and walked the twenty blocks to get there early, suitcase left at the Hampton, silver handbag still over my shoulder because I owned nothing else that went with anything.
Priya's office was on the 18th floor of a building with a small lobby and a slow elevator. She was in her forties, dark blazer, no jewelry, and she listened without taking many notes while I told her about the Slack post, Jasmine, the lobby, the HR email. I showed her the email on my phone. She read it and slid it back.
"He went to a lawyer before the gala," I said. "Does that matter?"
"It tells me he anticipated this," Priya said. "It doesn't change your options. Tell me about Jasmine."
"She works in sales. I've seen her at two company events. At the gala last night he was in the back hallway with her, by the dressing suites. The door was locked from inside."
Priya nodded. She didn't react. She asked about assets, lease, joint accounts, the Slack post's exact wording. I answered. She printed a one-page fee agreement and explained what retaining meant, what it didn't. The words "discovery" and "no-fault" were less scary on paper.
"Do you want to delete the post?" she asked.
"No," I said. I thought about the wheels catching on the marble and the way his hand had dropped when I said divorce lawyer. "I want it to stay up until HR talks to me."
"Then don't," she said. "I'll come with you to that meeting if you want. Or you go alone and tell the truth. Your call."
I signed. The pen was heavy. She made a copy and handed it to me. My hand was steady this time.
When I walked out at 11:48, my phone lit up. My husband had texted: "My lawyer says you kept the post up. Jasmine is willing to talk to you. Can we meet?" Below that, an unknown number: "Hi Claire, it's Jasmine. I think you deserve to hear it from me."
May you like
I stood on the sidewalk with the retainer in my bag and the diner coffee sour in my mouth. The street was crowded with lunch crowds and delivery bikes. I typed back to Jasmine first: "When and where?" Then to my husband: "Through our lawyers."
I didn't wait for replies. I started walking back toward the Hampton to get my suitcase before checkout, the city loud around me, and for the first time since the revolving doors I wasn't pulling anything behind me.
