Lumina's next submission arrived on Friday morning.
The files came through in a secure package, accompanied by a letter from the company's finance department.
I read the letter before opening the attachments.
It described the changes to the projections as the result of ongoing commercial negotiations and revised implementation schedules. It also promised that more definitive information would become available as discussions progressed.
The language was polished.
It was not especially reassuring.
I forwarded the package to the review team and asked them to compare every revised assumption against the supporting documents.
By noon, I had a preliminary list of questions.
Some of the expenses had reasonable explanations. Others required more detail. Several revenue estimates still relied on agreements that had not reached the stage of signed commitments.
The team was careful not to confuse uncertainty with failure.
I was proud of them for that.
When I founded my professional life around investment decisions, I had learned that a confident voice could make weak evidence sound persuasive. The answer was never to become louder than the person making the claim.
The answer was to ask for the documents.
That afternoon, I met with Daniel and two members of the legal team.
We reviewed the proposed next steps.
“Are we looking at a possible funding adjustment?” one of the lawyers asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “We're looking at whether the assumptions supporting the current exposure are reasonable.”
“And if they aren't?”
“Then we'll consider the options available under the agreements. We don't decide that before we know what the evidence says.”
The lawyer nodded and made a note.
I wanted every person in that room to understand the distinction.
Aegis Capital had significant investments in companies whose futures could change because of our decisions. We had obligations to our investors, our partners, and the people whose livelihoods depended on those businesses.
A company could not be treated as a personal argument.
Neither could a former husband.
I finished the meeting with a list of follow-ups and returned to my office.
Brent had sent another message.
You can't keep ignoring me forever.
I read it once.
Then I put the phone facedown.
He was right about one thing. I could not avoid every conversation forever.
But I could decide when a conversation was necessary and what I was willing to discuss.
I had no obligation to explain my work simply because he had become curious about it.
At four, my assistant told me a man had called the main office asking to speak with me personally.
She did not say his name.
She didn't have to.
“Did he explain what he wanted?”
“He said it was personal.”
“Did you give him my schedule?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
I returned to the report in front of me.
For a few minutes, I wondered whether Brent would attempt to reach me through another route. He knew I had professional contacts. He knew I attended meetings and worked with people whose names occasionally appeared in business publications.
He had never paid much attention to those details.
At least, not when they belonged to me.
That evening, I stopped at a small grocery store on my way home.
I bought eggs, bread, apples, and a bunch of tulips that had begun to open at the edges. They were inexpensive and slightly uneven, with two stems bent in opposite directions.
I liked them immediately.
At home, I cut the stems and placed them in a glass jar because I couldn't find the vase I wanted.
The flowers leaned toward the window.
I left them that way.
On Saturday morning, Brent called again.
I answered before I could talk myself out of it.
“Whitney.”
His voice changed at once, as if he'd been holding his breath.
“Thank you for answering.”
“What do you need, Brent?”
“I want to see you.”
“For what?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
He exhaled sharply.
“Can we have one conversation without you making me explain every word?”
I stood beside the kitchen counter, looking at the tulips.
“You've called repeatedly and asked me to meet you. It's reasonable to ask why.”
“I want to understand what happened at the restaurant.”
“What happened is that you saw me and decided to humiliate me in front of the woman you were with.”
“That isn't what I meant.”
“It was what you did.”
He went quiet.
I could hear faint traffic through his end of the call.
Finally, he said, “You seemed so sure of yourself.”
I almost laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“I was sitting at a table, Brent.”
“You looked like you belonged there.”
“I did belong there.”
“That isn't what I mean.”
“Then tell me what you mean.”
He hesitated.
“Were you working with someone? Was that meeting connected to Lumina?”
“No.”
“Do you know Sloane professionally?”
“I know of her.”
“From where?”
“Brent, I'm not going to conduct an interview about my life because you've suddenly become interested in it.”
“I'm trying to understand.”
“Then start with something simple. Why did you assume I had nothing going on in my life?”
He didn't answer immediately.
“I never said you had nothing going on.”
“You told me I lacked ambition.”
“I was frustrated.”
“You told me Sloane was more successful than I could ever be.”
“I was in love with her.”
The words landed between us with the dull weight of something already settled.
I closed my eyes briefly.
There was still a part of me that wanted to ask when he had first decided that our marriage was over. I wanted to know which conversations he had replayed, which lies he had told himself, and whether he had ever noticed how carefully I chose my words around him.
But knowing those things would not change what he had done.
“You made your decision,” I said. “You don't get to turn it into my responsibility because you regret the way I reacted.”
“I haven't said I regret it.”
“Then what are we discussing?”
He sounded annoyed again.
“I just want to know what you're doing now.”
“I'm living my life.”
“That doesn't tell me anything.”
“It tells you what you need to know.”
He fell silent.
I could almost picture him sitting somewhere with his phone pressed to his ear, waiting for me to soften.
I didn't.
After a while, he said, “I thought you were happy for me.”
I looked at the tulips.
“You thought I would make your choices comfortable for you.”
“That isn't fair.”
“Neither was the way you treated me.”
He drew a breath.
“Could we meet somewhere? Just once. No accusations.”
I considered it.
A part of me wanted the satisfaction of seeing his face when he finally understood how badly he had misjudged me. I wanted to watch his certainty disappear.
That desire frightened me more than I expected.
If I met him to deliver a revelation, then he would still be controlling the purpose of my day.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I don't think you want to understand me. I think you want to solve a mystery that has started bothering you.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But I'm not required to convince you.”
I ended the call.
My hand shook slightly afterward.
I put the phone down and pressed both palms against the counter until the feeling passed.
I had imagined that standing up for myself would feel triumphant.
Mostly, it felt tiring.
I had spent years learning how to make difficult rooms comfortable for other people. It was a habit, not a personality trait, and habits did not disappear just because I had finally recognized them.
I made tea and sat by the window.
The city carried on below me.
People crossed the street with shopping bags. A cyclist stopped to adjust his helmet. Someone on the opposite sidewalk struggled to keep a paper bag from tearing.
Life did not pause for my divorce.
That was a comfort.
On Monday, the review team gathered again.
The new materials had answered some questions and left others open. The projected contracts were still at different stages of negotiation. Certain expenses appeared justified, while other allocations needed a more complete explanation.
Daniel summarized the findings without exaggeration.
“We're not ready to recommend a final decision,” he said. “We need the remaining documents, and we need to verify the status of the agreements.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“Should we notify the investment committee that the review is taking longer?”
“Yes. Tell them we're completing the work, not that we've reached a conclusion.”
After the meeting, I signed the notice and returned to my office.
There was a new email from Brent.
The subject line read: Please tell me the truth.
I didn't open it.
I archived it with the others.
The truth was not something I owed him in installments until he found a version he could accept.
If he ever learned who I was professionally, it would not be because I had arranged a scene to make him regret his choices.
It would be because the work brought the truth into view.
And if that day came, I wanted to know that every decision I had made beforehand could withstand the same scrutiny I expected of everyone else.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: The Review Reached Its Turning Point When the Missing Evidence Finally Arrived
My Husband Said I Was Going Nowhere, Then Left Divorce Papers Beside the Laptop I Used to Hide My Real Life
Part 10 of 12
