Our first date.
His surprise when I told him about my father.
His perfectly timed questions.
The way he seemed to understand grief without my explaining it.
There were more emails.
Months of them.
Adrian reporting back.
She’s cautious about money.
Victoria replying.
Then don’t discuss money.
Adrian:
She doesn’t care about the Holloway name as much as I expected.
Victoria:
Good. People who chase status are harder to control.
I stopped.
Control.
The word sat there.
Seven years old.
Older than our marriage.
Older than the first time he told me he loved me.
Older than the house.
Older than every apology I had believed.
I forced myself onward.
Four months after our first meeting:
Adrian:
She’s serious about a prenup.
Victoria:
Sign it. The trust remains separate either way. We need patience, not a fight before the wedding.
Adrian:
You make this sound like an acquisition.
Victoria:
Everything is an acquisition if you are honest enough about it.
I made it to the bathroom before I was sick.
Afterward I sat on the cold floor.
The same position.
Different bathroom.
Different January light.
For months I had believed I was grieving the end of my marriage.
Now I understood I was grieving something worse.
The beginning.
The bookstore.
The changed place cards.
The questions.
The rainstorm when he appeared outside my office with coffee because he “happened to be nearby.”
Our first Christmas when he found a first edition of my father’s favorite novel.
I had cried.
“You listen to everything,” I told him.
He had kissed my forehead.
Apparently Victoria listened first.
Daniel called that evening.
“Rebecca told me.”
I sat beside the bedroom window.
“How much of it was planned?”
“The meeting definitely.”
“The relationship?”
“At least initially.”
“The proposal?”
“We don’t have emails that explicit.”
“Was any of it real?”
Daniel was silent.
“I can’t answer that.”
I laughed.
It came out broken.
“That’s the only question I care about.”
“I know.”
There was one email I had not read.
Dated three weeks before our wedding.
From Adrian.
