“Um… do you have a second property in Paris?” he asks.
Some real estate lawyer he is. He can’t even keep track of our properties. Although to be fair, I hadn’t appraised Mr. Carter of all my own family holdings going into the marriage. As a Manhattan real estate financier, Tristan had insisted on retaining his own lawyer he’d been using for years. Since I don’t wheel and deal in properties like he did, his choice for our attorney had made sense.
“I’m not sure how many Tristan may own. I guess that’s one of the things I’ll have to get up to speed on now. I’m talking about my apartment on the Champs-Élysées.”
I leave off the part about wanting to get out of town so I could lick the wounds left by Tristan’s humiliating final betrayal in privacy, away from the media.
Silence.
“Hello? Did I lose you?” I finally ask, glancing at the phone to see if we’ve been disconnected.
“No. I’m here, but…”
Long seconds tick by, each one causing my heart rate to increase. I don’t know the lawyer well, but even over the phone I know something is wrong.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I press.
“You need to come into my office. We’ll discuss it then.”
“We’ll discuss it now,” I snap. “I told you, I won’t have time to see you before leaving town. I’ve already booked my flight.”
In the awkward silence, I look out the window and notice we’re pulling up in front of the church. Small groups of people are already hovering on the front sidewalk and steps. Photographers in one group, and family-friends and curious onlookers in others. The only thing they have in common is their damn black clothing, in direct contrast to the colorful flower beds enjoying the sunny day.
Mr. Stryker drags my thoughts back to reality.
“I’m not sure how to tell you this, Ms. Belov, but unless you have a second property I’m unaware of… you no longer own an apartment in Paris.”
My ears start to ring. I had to have heard him wrong. The apartment in Paris had been my mother’s favorite vacation spot. I’d been escaping there on holiday since I was a child. My father bought it for her before I was even born.
“You must be mistaken. If Tristan sold a property there recently, it must have been one of his own investments. That property is not part of his portfolio.”
“You really need to come–”
“No.” I’m officially out of patience. “You work for me. I will come to you after my holiday. You are mistaken. I’ve sold none of the properties I inherited when my father passed away three years ago.”
My finger is hovering over the END button when I hear him yelling for my attention. I put the phone back to my ear in time to hear him finishing his thought.
“I’m looking at your signature on the closing paperwork right now. It’s dated three months ago, the same day we closed on the property. I distinctly remember Mr. Miller advising me that you weren’t feeling well that morning and that you’d signed the power of attorney ahead of the official closing to allow him to provide your signature in advance.”
A few days ago I didn’t think I could get angrier at my now dead husband for the humiliating way he’d left this world.
Today I know I was wrong.
He sold my favorite holiday home, one of the few places I could still go and feel close to my dead mother. A home that was filled with precious memories.
And he did it behind my back.
Mr. Jenkins opens the door next to me, but I yank it closed again. I can’t get out yet. Not while I feel like I’m free-falling into quicksand. Fear presses on my chest. My brain feels muddled, unable to make sense of what Stryker just told me.
It’s only when my eyes connect with Tristan’s father that I understand just how grave my situation might be. Glee has replaced his previous anger and sadness.
“Ms. Belov? Are you still there?” The lawyer is almost shouting.
“I can’t do this right now,” I say, barely holding back the tears stinging my eyes.
“This can’t wait long,” he adds.
“Tomorrow. I’ll deal with this tomorrow.”