After My Divorce, I Married His Brother

Spencer chose Aureole because he always chose Aureole. Midtown. White tablecloths. A wine list that required a sommelier's interpretation. The kind of place where the lighting was soft enough to forgive bad news and expensive enough to imply importance.

I sat across from him and watched him not look at me.

He'd been doing that for five years—looking just past my shoulder, just over my head, anywhere but directly at my face. Tonight was no different. He ordered for both of us without asking. Steak for him. Sea bass for me. I didn't correct him. I hadn't eaten sea bass since our honeymoon, but Spencer had never noticed.

The first course arrived. I picked up my fork. Spencer cleared his throat.

"Laila," he said. "We need to talk."

I set the fork down. "All right."

He reached into the leather bag beside his chair and pulled out a manila envelope. He slid it across the table with two fingers, the way you'd slide a tip to a valet. It stopped just short of my water glass.

"I think it's time we both moved on," he said.

I looked at the envelope. Then at him. He was watching the candle between us like it held answers.

"Moved on," I repeated.

He nodded. "We've been going through the motions for a while now. You know that. I know that." He paused, and for the first time all evening, his eyes met mine. "Charli and I—"

"Charli Guzman," I said. Not a question.

"Yes." He didn't flinch. "She's... she's my future, Laila. And you deserve someone who can give you what you need. This"—he gestured vaguely at the envelope—"is fair. More than fair, actually. My lawyer made sure of it."

I picked up the envelope. It was heavier than I expected. I opened it slowly, pulled out the papers, and started reading.

Spencer shifted in his seat. "You don't have to read all of it now. We can—"

"I'm reading it," I said.

So I did. Every page. Every clause. The apartment would go to him. The summer house in the Hamptons—his. The settlement was a lump sum, enough to live comfortably if I was careful, not enough to live like a Coleman. There was a non-disparagement clause. A confidentiality agreement. A timeline: thirty days to vacate the apartment.

I turned the last page over and set the stack down beside my untouched plate.

"This is insultingly low," I said.

Spencer blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The settlement." I tapped the number with one finger. "It's insulting."

He laughed. Actually laughed. "Laila, that's more than most people see in a lifetime—"

"I'm not most people," I said. "I'm your wife. Was your wife. For five years. I want triple."

The laugh died. His jaw tightened. "Triple."

"Yes."

"That's—" He stopped. Recalculated. I watched him do the math in his head, watched the color rise in his face. "That's ridiculous."

"Then don't agree," I said. I folded the papers neatly, slid them back into the envelope, and tucked it into my bag. "We'll let the lawyers sort it out. I'm sure Charli won't mind waiting."

I saw it then—the flicker of panic behind his eyes. He wanted this done. Clean. Fast. He wanted to walk into his new life without me trailing behind him like a loose thread.

"Fine," he said. "I'll talk to my lawyer."

"Good." I picked up my wine glass and finished it in one long swallow. Then I stood, smoothed my skirt, and looked down at him. "Enjoy your dinner, Spencer."

I walked out of Aureole without looking back.

---

The apartment was dark when I got home. I didn't turn on the lights. I sat on the sofa in my coat and stared at the envelope in my lap.

Five years.

Five years of silent dinners and separate bedrooms. Five years of standing beside him at charity galas while he introduced me as "my wife, Laila" in the same tone he'd use for "my accountant" or "my driver." Five years of waiting for him to see me.

He never did.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to a number I hadn't called in three years. My thumb hovered over the screen.

Then I pressed it.

It rang twice.

"Laila?" His voice was low, careful. "Is everything all right?"

Rex Coleman. Spencer's younger half-brother. The one the family tolerated but never celebrated. The one who'd spent the last six years in London running the Coleman Group's European division and turning it into the company's most profitable arm.

The one who'd sat beside me at his mother's funeral when we were children and held my hand without saying a word.

"I need to see you," I said. "Tomorrow. Somewhere private."

There was a pause. Not hesitation. Just... space.

"Where?" he asked.

"The club on Barrow Street. Two o'clock."

"I'll be there," he said.

I hung up. Set the phone down. Straightened the envelope on the coffee table until its edges were perfectly parallel to the table's edge.

Then I sat back and waited for tomorrow.