Divorced, Then Priceless

Chapter 3

The study smelled so much like old books and expensive whiskey. Callum handed me a glass without asking if I wanted one, then he sat back in the leather chair opposite me as if he had nowhere else to be.

"Belle, you're actually not gonna cry about him, are you?"

I took a slow sip. The whiskey burned my throat so much that I could literally puke. "No."

"Good." He swirled his own glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "Funerals are for the dead. You're still breathing."

I almost laughed. My brother had so much humor. How I missed him so much.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Well, it’s supposed to be the truth." He leaned back and studied me. "You look like hell, by the way. Very expensive hell, but still hell."

"Thank you. I was aiming for devastated but dignified."

"You nailed it." He put his glass down. "Now tell me what happened, sister. Give me the short version. I don't need every ugly detail unless you actually want to tell me, your very attractive brother." He smirked.

I looked down at my drink.

The short version. Four years of marriage and somehow I could summarize the whole thing into a few sentences. Honestly, it should have been harder than this. Maybe that’s what hurt most, but it wasn't.

"He stopped seeing me," I said. "Then he stopped pretending I mattered. Then Vivian Shaw started sending him texts about how perfect last night was." I paused. "I signed the papers and left. The end."

Callum didn't react right away. His face still stayed calm, but I saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. "And the ring?"

"Left it on the table."

"Good."

I looked at him. "That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? I am, actually. That he's a fool? He is, though. That I'd like to ruin him slowly and watch him realize exactly what he had lost?" He shrugged. "I've been saying that for years."

I blinked. "Years?"

Callum picked up his glass again. "Our family has been watching his company for a long time, Isabelle. His business moves, his investors, his weak spots. And yes, the woman." He said the last part with a look of disgust. "Vivian Shaw has been after him for months. We knew about her before you did."

That hurt.

"And nobody thought to let me know?"

"Would you have listened?"

The question hit harder than it should have. I opened my mouth to argue, but then closed it. Really thinking about it, he is right. I wouldn't have listened. I would have defended Nathaniel and found some excuses for him. I always did. It’s really a shame.

I let out a slow breath. "So what now? You expect me to walk into the family business and play heiress?"

"No one is asking you to just walk in and do anything. But Dad has been waiting for you to take your place." He tilted his head. "You've been earning it your whole life, Isabelle. You just didn't know it."

I stared at him, for a little long. "That's a very dramatic thing to say."

"I'm a very dramatic person. It's part of my charm."

I snorted, that was the closest thing to a laugh I managed all night. "Your charm could use some work."

"My charm is impeccable. You're just emotionally constipated." He got up and stretched. "Get some rest. We will figure out the strategy together tomorrow. But as of tonight, bury the old version of yourself and get some sleep."

He walked toward the door, then paused. "And Isabelle?"

I looked at him. "What?"

"If that man calls you again, don't answer. Let him wonder why you’re not answering. Silence is louder than anything you could ever try to say to him."

Then he left.

Just like that, I was alone with my whiskey and a head full of thoughts.

…

I found my old bedroom the same way I left it. Not to mention the pale walls which were still the same, so was the huge window overlooking the gardens. Even my bookshelves were still packed with my old novels and notebooks. It felt like stepping into a version of myself I'd almost forgotten.

I put my glass down on the nightstand and moved to one of the bookshelves. I ran my fingers through the books until I found an old leather journal.

I pulled it out carefully, the cover had gone really soft from several years of handling.

Inside were pages of my own handwriting. Dates from before the wedding. Ideas I'd scribbled during those late nights when I couldn't sleep.

Business concepts. Investment plans. Notes about companies I thought had potential.

Several plans I made before I convinced myself that being Nathaniel's wife was enough.

I flipped through a few pages before stopping at a random one, then I read it out loud.

"If I could build something of my own, it wouldn't be about proving I'm smart. It would be about creating a legacy that doesn't depend on who I marry."

I stared at the words. The girl who wrote that knew exactly what she wanted, she knew who she was. Somewhere along the way, I lost that girl.

I closed the journal and held it against my chest. Outside, the moon sat low over the estate gardens, and the wedges were barely visible in the dim light. Everything was quiet here. No sirens. No cold penthouse silence.

Just the leaves moving outside and the distant hum of security gates.

For the first time in so many years, I didn't feel like I was waiting for something. I actually felt like I was about to start something.

The new phone my mother gave to me buzzed on the nightstand.

I picked it up, expecting a message from Callum or my mother. Instead, it was a number I didn’t recognize.

"Welcome back, Ms. Rowan. We've been expecting you."

I stared at the words, my heart beating slow and steady. Who the hell was "we"? And how did they know I was here already?

I typed back quickly.

"Who is this?"

The reply came almost instantly.

"An old friend. We'll be in touch soon."

Then the screen went dark. I stood there for a moment, the phone cold in my hand. The journal was still pressed against my chest.

Somewhere downstairs, I heard Callum's footsteps moving around the house. Outside, the wind moved through the trees.

I looked at my phone, then back at the journal and, then out at the gardens.

Something was changing. I could definitely feel it.

The old Isabelle would have been afraid. She would have turned off the phone and crawled into bed and waited for someone to tell her what to do next.

But that woman was gone.

I put the phone down on the nightstand and opened the journal to a fresh page. Then I picked up a pen from the desk and wrote three words at the top.

"Start with the truth.”