Chapter 5: What Diane Did Next
We filed at 4:47 that afternoon.
I was in a serviced apartment in Canary Wharf — booked three weeks earlier, paid twelve months in advance from my own account — when Serena sent the confirmation.
I read it once, set my phone on the kitchen counter, and made tea.
Julian called four more times that evening.
I let all four go to voicemail.
I didn't listen to the messages until the following morning, sitting at the small table by the window with the river visible below.
The first message: *"Claire, we need to talk.
Just — call me back."*
The second: *"My mother wants to meet.
She says she has things to explain.
I think you should hear her out."*
The third, left at 11:42 p.m.: *"I found the notes.
In the kitchen drawer.
The ones you kept about dates and times.
Why did you — how long were you—"* A long pause.
*"Call me."*
The fourth, at 1:09 a.m., his voice different.
Quieter.
*"She's already called someone.
I didn't know she was going to do that.
I want you to know I didn't ask her to."*
I set the phone down.
I believed him about that last part.
That was almost worse.
Serena called at nine.
"They've made contact," she said.
"A letter arrived this morning by courier, from a firm I don't recognize.
They're claiming the prenup was signed under emotional pressure and without sufficient time for independent review."
"He had six weeks and his own solicitor."
"I know.
I have the file.
But they've also included a secondary claim." A pause.
"They're arguing that your decision to sell the house constitutes financial @buse — that you used your sole ownership of a marital asset to coerce and destabilize."
I was quiet for a moment.
"They're calling me the @buser."
"Yes."
"While Diane moved her daughter into my home without my consent, rearranged my kitchen, threw out my food, and told her son to silence me at the dinner table."
"Yes."
I looked out at the river.
"Who signed the letter?"
Serena read the name.
It wasn't the struck-off solicitor.
It was a different name — a firm with a respectable address in the City.
"She found someone cleaner," I said.
"It appears so.
Which means she moved fast and she had this ready.
This wasn't drafted overnight, Claire.
Parts of this language were prepared in advance."
The tea had gone cold.
I pushed it aside.
"She was planning this before I sold the house," I said.
"That's what the timeline suggests."
"Which means she knew I might."
"Or she was prepared for any move you made.
She's been watching you for a long time."
I thought about the dinner.
Diane's face when I said *either they respect me or they leave.* She hadn't looked surprised.
She had looked ready.
"What do we do?" I asked.
"We respond formally by Friday.
I want to submit the voice recording as evidence of her stated intent to challenge the prenup through irregular means.
I also want to subpoena the communication records between Diane and this firm — if the retainer predates your house sale, it establishes premeditation."
"Can you get that?"
"I can request it.
Whether we receive it depends on how aggressively they want to fight." She paused.
"There's one more thing.
Patricia — Julian's aunt.
She was present at the dinner.
She left before the recording, but she heard the forty-thousand conversation."
"She did."
"Would she speak to that?"
I thought about the way Patricia had set her fork down.
The way she had stood.
*I've been staying out of things for three years.
I'm tired.*
"I think she might," I said.
"Find out," Serena said.
"Gently.
And Claire — don't speak to Julian until we've responded to this letter.
Not even to be kind."
I understood.
But that evening, Julian sent a text rather than calling.
*I didn't know about the forty thousand.
I thought my father repaid it.
I've just found out he didn't.
I'm sorry.*
May you like
I read it three times.
Then I screenshotted it, forwarded it to Serena, and didn't reply.
