I leaned back against the leather headrest. Dean sat rigid on my left, careful not to touch either of us.
My mind drifted to a cold, glass-walled office one month ago. Julian had sat across from me, his calm, warning eyes fixed on my face.
"We can segregate money traceable to your premarital property in a disclosed reserve account," Julian had told me. "But once Dean knows we are tracing the company transfers, he may try to move the rest."
I had signed the paper without a tremor.
Now, sitting in the dark theater, I watched Dean squirm.
Halfway through the film, Brooke leaned closer.
"He promised me a spring wedding," Brooke whispered, her voice trembling over the movie audio.
I kept my eyes on the CGI explosions. "Did he?"
"Next month," she insisted, gripping her handbag. "He said the paperwork with you was just a formality. He said you two hadn't slept in the same bed for a year."
"He slept in my bed last Tuesday," I replied flatly. "He cried. He begged. He ruined a good bouquet of roses."
Brooke flinched. She pressed a hand over her rounded stomach. "You're lying. You just want to ruin this for me."
"I don't care enough about him to ruin anything." I turned my head to look at her. "I'm just giving you the facts."
"He already picked out the venue," Brooke whispered, her voice tightening. "A country club. He paid the deposit."
"Did you see the receipt?" I asked.
"He showed me the email confirmation."
"Forwarded or a screenshot?" I pressed.
Brooke hesitated. "A screenshot."
"He's good at Photoshop. He used to alter his golf scores to impress his father."
"Stop it," she hissed.
"Ask him about the joint savings account," I suggested. "Ask him why he drained it last week."
Dean leaned forward, trying to speak across me. "Natalie, please. Brooke, don't listen to her. She's trying to manipulate you."
"Sit back," I ordered him.
"I'm not going to let you poison her mind," Dean argued, his voice a frantic, hushed rasp. "Brooke, I love you. I'm marrying you."
"Are you?" I asked him directly. "Because your lawyer told my lawyer you want to contest the divorce. You want to drag it out for two years."
Dean's jaw dropped. "That's a lie!"
"Julian Mercer doesn't lie," I said.
Brooke didn't answer him.
I glanced to my left. Dean had his phone hidden low between his thighs. His thumbs flew across the digital keyboard. He thought the flickering movie lights would hide his screen.
I moved fast. I dug my fingers into his palm, pried his grip open, and yanked the phone free.
"Give that back," Dean demanded. He reached across the console, his fingers clawing at my wrist.
I brought my boot down on his foot. All my weight focused on the heel.
Bone crunched against the floorboard.
Dean choked back a yell and slumped into his chair, clutching his foot.
I tilted the phone screen toward Brooke.
"Let's see who else is getting a spring wedding," I whispered.
Brooke leaned in. The bright screen illuminated her tear-streaked face.
The contact name at the top read Chloe.
I read the messages out loud, my voice a quiet murmur under the movie's booming soundtrack. "'Chloe. Message received at eight-fifteen. Are you almost here? I ordered the sushi.'"
"'Message sent at eight-seventeen,'" I continued, ignoring Dean's frantic gestures. "'Emergency company meeting. The board is breathing down my neck. I'll make it up to you tomorrow. Wear the red set.'"
"Who is Chloe?" Brooke demanded, leaning right over my lap to glare at Dean.
"She's a client. It's an inside joke."
"You ask your clients to wear a red set?" I asked.
Brooke snatched the phone from my hand. She scrolled up.
"You told her you love her," Brooke whispered. The anger drained from her tone, replaced by hollow shock. "You told her you were looking at houses in the hills."
"Brooke, baby, it's just talk," Dean pleaded, still rubbing his crushed foot. "She's a client. She's obsessed with me. I just tell her what she wants to hear so she keeps giving my firm her business."
"You're sleeping with her!" Brooke said, her voice rising above a whisper.
"I'm not!" Dean lied, his voice cracking.
"She sent you a picture of a hotel room key!" Brooke hissed, thrusting the screen toward his face. "Room 402 at the Plaza. Tonight!"
Dean recoiled. He had no answer for that.
"You told her I was a surrogate!" Brooke shrieked.
A man in the row ahead turned around. "Keep it down back there!"
Brooke shoved the phone directly into Dean's chest. It clattered to the floor.
"You're sick," Brooke spat. "You're a sick, twisted liar."
"I can fix this," Dean begged, reaching out to touch her arm.
"Don't touch me," Brooke snapped.
I picked up the phone from the floor and tossed it onto Dean's lap. He scrambled to catch it, looking like a rat caught in a trap.
"You disgust me," I told him.
The rest of the film passed with Brooke crying quietly and Dean staring at the floor. I left the divorce papers on the armrest between us.
Finally, the screen faded to black. The credits rolled. The harsh house lights flickered on, flooding the theater with unforgiving brightness.
People stood and gathered their things.
Dean shot up from his seat. He stepped into the aisle, blocking Brooke's path to the stairs.
"Brooke, please," he begged, holding his hands up in surrender. "Let's go to the car. We can talk about this. I can explain everything."
Brooke stood, mascara streaked beneath her eyes.
"Get out of my way," she said.
"Just give me five minutes," Dean insisted, grabbing her wrist. "Think about the baby."
Brooke swung her free hand.
Dean stumbled back, his hand flying to his bright red cheek. He stared at her, stunned.
Brooke pushed past him and marched down the carpeted steps.
I picked up my purse. I stood, smoothing the wrinkles from my coat.
Dean turned his desperate eyes to me. "Natalie, you ruined everything. Are you happy now?"
"I'm getting there," I said, stepping past him.
I walked down the stairs, catching up to Brooke near the exit doors.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a crisp, white business card. I held it out to her.
Brooke stared at it. "What is this?"
"Take it," I said.
She took the card. Her eyes scanned the embossed lettering.
"Julian Mercer is a very good lawyer," I told her, my voice echoing in the emptying hallway. "Call him tomorrow morning, and we will make sure Dean cannot hide another dollar from either of us."
