don’t want his trust fund. I don’t want his family’s money. I don’t want to fight over his stock, his future compensation, his bonuses, or anything else the prenup says is his.”
Nathan studied me rather than writing.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“It’s my answer.”
“No. I asked what you want.”
Across the windows, afternoon light glittered on Boston Harbor. Freedom sounded theatrical; dignity, pretentious; peace, impossibly far away. Finally I found the words.
“I want what was mine before him,” I said. “And I want to be finished.”
