Chapter 6: The Anniversary Dinner
Diana's voice was steady when she answered.
"Tell me."
"Cayman account," Natalie said.
"I'm going to need you to record this." She looked at Preston.
"He's going to give you the account details directly."
A brief silence on the line.
"Put him on."
Natalie held the phone across the table.
Preston took it.
He sat with Diana's voice in his ear for forty seconds, answering questions in short, flat sentences.
Account number.
Institution.
Approximate balance.
Date of first deposit.
When he handed the phone back, his hand was steady but his color was wrong — a grayish pallor that Natalie associated with men who had just understood that a door had closed behind them.
"I'll have a motion drafted within the hour," Diana said.
"Natalie, I need you to stay home today.
Don't let him remove anything from the residence."
"Understood."
"And drink some water.
Your blood pressure—"
"I know.
I will."
She ended the call.
Preston was looking at the Montblanc pen still lying on the table where he had thrown it.
"The anniversary dinner," he said.
Natalie looked at him.
"It's tonight," he said.
"I made the reservation three months ago.
Eleven Madison Park." He said it like he had forgotten until this moment.
Like the fact of it surprised him.
"I know," Natalie said.
"I was going to—" He stopped.
"What were you going to do?"
He shook his head slowly.
"Were you going to tell me about Sloan tonight?" Natalie asked.
"Or were you going to sit across from me at an $800 dinner and let me believe we were celebrating twelve years?"
"I don't know what I was going to do."
"That's the most honest thing you've said all morning."
He looked at her.
"I didn't want this."
"Which part?"
"Any of it." His voice was quiet.
"I didn't want to lose the fund.
I didn't want to take the money.
I didn't want—" He stopped again.
"You didn't want to get caught," Natalie said.
"That's different from not wanting to do it."
He had no answer for that.
Natalie picked up the Montblanc pen from the table.
She turned it in her fingers once.
*Build something worth keeping.* She set it in her bag.
"I'm going to my sister's tonight," she said.
"I'd like you to arrange to stay somewhere else while the legal process moves forward.
If you need to collect personal items, let Diana know and she'll arrange a supervised time."
"Natalie—"
"I'm 31 weeks pregnant.
My blood pressure is elevated.
My doctor has told me to reduce stress." She picked up her bag.
"I'm going to do that now."
She walked toward the bedroom to pack.
Preston stayed at the table.
She was halfway down the hallway when he spoke.
"I'm sorry."
She stopped.
She didn't turn around.
"I know," she said.
She kept walking.
That evening, at the table Preston had reserved at Eleven Madison Park, two seats sat empty.
The reservation was under Whitmore.
The server held it for twenty minutes before releasing it to another couple — a man and a woman who laughed easily and touched hands across the white linen and had no idea whose evening they had inherited.
Three miles away, in her sister's apartment in the West Village, Natalie sat on the couch with her feet up and a cup of tea going cold on the side table.
Her sister, Renata, sat beside her.
She hadn't asked many questions.
She had simply opened the door, taken Natalie's bag, and put the kettle on.
"Do you want to talk?" Renata asked.
"Not yet."
"Okay."
They sat quietly.
The television was off.
Outside, the city moved through its evening.
Then Natalie's phone lit up with a text from an unknown number.
Not Claire Sutton's number.
A different one.
*This is Sloan.
I think we need to talk.
Not about Preston.
About what he told both of us.*
Natalie stared at the screen.
Renata glanced over.
"Who is it?"
May you like
Natalie set the phone face-down on the cushion beside her.
"Someone I wasn't expecting," she said.
