After the Storm The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

"His pre-marriage villa, you can't touch."

"I know."

"But the condo he bought after the wedding, and his shares in that company, those split fifty-fifty. The house he bought for that woman, you can claim repayment on that."

I nodded.

Bridget James pushed her reading glasses up. "Did he sign?"

"No."

"Then we send the legal notice first."

At two that afternoon the notice was delivered to Brian's office. At three he called; I muted it. At four he called my mother's phone, and she answered, said only, "Fiona's nursing the baby," and hung up. By five-thirty he was downstairs, the car window rolled down, Sloane in the passenger seat.

She had on a loose dress, one hand resting on her stomach.

I was on the balcony bringing in the laundry, the younger one crying inside. His mother had come too, standing at the building's entrance with two boxes of imported formula, and she looked up and saw me.

"Fiona," Juliana Simmons called. "Come down. There's something I want to say to you."

I carried the younger one down. She stood at the edge of the flower bed in her heels and looked me over.

"The twins have lost weight."

"They haven't."

"Brian told me. The thing with that woman was wrong of him, but he's already dealt with it."

I shifted Job to my other shoulder. "Dealt with it how?"

"Gave her a sum of money. Told her to get rid of the baby."

I looked at her.

She smoothed her hair. "Fiona, you've made your scene, you've gotten it out of your system. It's about time you came back. Two little boys can't grow up without a father, and a young woman moving back to her mother's with her children, that doesn't sound good if it gets around."

"Gets around?"

I let out a small laugh. "Mom, your son kept a woman on the side for eight years. Does that sound good if it gets around?"

Her face changed. "Fiona, is that any way to speak to me?"

Job woke at the noise and started crying. I patted him and turned to go back, and behind me she called out, "You think hard about this! Where will you go once you're divorced? You know perfectly well what your mother's place has to offer."

I shut the building door.

Brian didn't come back that night. Early the next morning his brother showed up, Charles Simmons, five years younger than Brian, coasting along at one of the family's subsidiaries. He crouched outside our door smoking a cigarette, tapping the ash onto the floor tiles my mother kept polished to a shine.

"Fiona, my brother sent me."

"Sent you to talk me round?"

"Sent me to get the agreement signed." He stubbed out the cigarette. "Property goes the way you want, the kids are yours, and he'll pay double child support."

I held Theodore and watched him.

"He says you can have the house and the car, plus thirty percent of the company shares. As long as you don't take it to court."

"He's afraid of court?"

Charles lit another. "Fiona, my father's health isn't good. If this ends up in the news, the old man won't be able to take it."

I said nothing.

He stood up. "I brought the agreement. Look it over, and if there's no problem, sign."

The agreement lay open on the coffee table. My mother brought over a glass of water, her hand a little unsteady. I read through it. It gave up even more than Bridget had drafted, an extra half of a commercial unit thrown in.

"This generous?"

Charles crushed out the cigarette. "He says, call it compensation for you."

The pen sat beside the agreement.

I looked at the two little ones asleep in the rocker, then at my mother. Her back was to me, wiping down the stove, the rag squeaking against the tile.

I picked up the pen.

"Fiona," Charles said, "anything you need from now on, just come to me."

"That won't be necessary."

The name written out, the last stroke down, Theodore whimpered in his sleep.

Charles gathered up the agreement, walked to the door, and turned back.