by Maryann Reid
For her part, Blake watched him go, and wondered if she should find an opening in her schedule for him. He’d said his one more thing without even a hint of a smile, and he obviously didn’t hesitate to go after what he wanted. She couldn’t help but respect him for both.
#
Toward two o’clock in the morning the pre-opening party finally broke up, with some subtle encouragement from Edith and the weary catering and security personnel. Blake, cheerily tipsy and still thrilled to have her Uncle Thorne in town, invited him and Michaele to come home with her and stay the night in one of her empty bedrooms.
“We want to make sure you have a good night’s sleep,” Uncle Thorne said as he hugged Blake goodnight. “But we’ll be over in the afternoon for a visit.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.” Wishing she didn’t have to, Blake stepped out of the hug. “Even if it’s only for the weekend, it means the world to me.”
He ruffled her hair. “You getting yourself free from that son of a bitch you called a husband means the world to me, girl. To your mother, too.”
“I know. Let’s not talk about him, though.” She blew a kiss to them. “I’ll see you in the afternoon. Love you both.”
Blake turned to go inside the apartment building, stopping when Michaele called, “What’s wrong? Did you forget something?”
“No.” Blake grinned. “I just need to use the bathroom, that’s all. I drank a few too many Grand Marnier Sidecars tonight, I think.”
“Yes, I think you did.” Uncle Thorne laughed and motioned her to go on. “We’ll wait here and walk you to the parking deck.”
“You don’t have to—”
“We know that,” Michaele said, smiling as she leaned against Thorne. “But we want to, so that’s that.”
Blake opened the door from the courtyard and stumbled a little on her way to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Lucky I’m wearing flats instead of stilettos. And lucky I’ve got a chauffeur waiting to drive me home. I’m tore up from the floor up, I do believe. She plunked herself down on a toilet and let the floodwaters rush out of her.
At first she didn’t think anything of the master bathroom door opening, and a pair of feet coming to a stop. Thankfully, the toilet area was private, encased between two walls and a door.
Then the realization penetrated Blake’s alcohol-fogged mind. Michaele wouldn’t be wearing Allen Edmonds loafers.
Icy fear burned in her gut. She knew it wouldn’t be, but she asked, begging it to be so, “Uncle Thorne?”
Finished with her business, she swung the door open, and there stood Lang. Her soon-to-be ex-husband. Soot-colored eyes searing twin holes in her soul. “Afraid not, my darling wife.”
She stood, knowing herself trapped. Just as she’d been throughout ten years of a marriage made in hell. “What do you want, Lang?”
“You.” He shrugged.
“Let me out.”
“Sure.” He kicked the door open, grabbed her arm, and hauled her out. Then he punched her in the stomach.
Even as he clutched a fistful of her hair and kicked her feet out from under her, part of her couldn’t believe this was happening, here and now. On the evening of her return to solo real estate development. Just a week before her divorce was to be finalized.
He kicked her legs, her back, her arms protecting her head. She cried out, begged him to stop.
“Get the fuck away from her, you microscopic dick.” It was Uncle Thorne’s voice.
“Who’s going to make me? Huh?” Lang’s expensive dress shoes turned around to face Uncle Thorne’s sneakers. “You wouldn’t want to hurt your musician’s hands, old man.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I’d love to beat the shit out of your punk ass, even if I can never play a guitar again.” Uncle Thorne’s leather jacket fell to the floor. “Just throw the first punch, so I can honestly say you started it.”
“And I’m warning you, he’ll have help.” Michaele’s even, calm voice somehow seemed more threatening than Uncle Thorne’s barely restrained fury.
Blake struggled to stand up. Every inch of her ached, screamed protests when she moved. A moan escaped her.
Nobody else made a sound for what seemed an eternity. Finally Lang snorted. “Some other time, maybe, when it’s just me and you. I’ve got no feud with your wife. I don’t want to wreck her pretty face.”
“Excuses, excuses.” Uncle Thorne’s sneakers paced toward Blake. “You’d best clear out before I decide I don’t care if I go to jail, Lang.”
“Fuck for brains.” Lang’s high-end shoes tapped across the marble tiles, the sound stopping when he reached the carpeted hall.
Uncle Thorne slid one hand under Blake’s shoulders, the other under her knees. He grunted as he lifted her. “You’re not heavy, you’re my niece. But my back isn’t young anymore.” He smiled at Blake, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Blake managed a smile back at him. She tried to say thanks, but her mouth wouldn’t do what her brain told it to.
Thorne looked at Michaele. “Her phone is probably in her purse. Edith should be “1” on her speed dial. We’ll spend the night in Blake’s place after all. And by the time we leave, she’ll have round-the-clock professional bodyguards.”
Chapter Two
February 13
Miami, Florida
Her BlackBerry rang at 7:15 A.M., just as Blake finished applying her blue eye shadow. Donna Summer’s “She Works Hard for the Money” alerted her that it was her business manager, Charles Douglas, calling.
She skipped the niceties of saying hellos. “I’ve got to be in court at eight,” Blake reminded him.
“I know that, but I’ve been waiting since closing time yesterday to tell you this. The Wishman family is ready to make a deal.”
Her heart galloped in her chest as she strode out of the bathroom and plunked herself on a corner of her bed. “How much are they asking?”
“A billion.”
Her galloping heart came to an abrupt halt. “I wouldn’t have that much even if Lang gets nothing from me today. What’s the FMV?”
“I had to dangle some carrots to get that info for you after business hours yesterday, but here you go. Six hundred million.”
Blake winced. She’d have that much only if the divorce order ended up heavily biased in her favor. Otherwise she’d be forced to borrow some money or recruit investment partners if she really wanted to make this deal happen. Which she did. Desperately.
“Offer four hundred mil. Maybe by the time the haggling is all done, we can bring the price close to actual fair market value.”
“I’m on it. Good luck today.”
“Thanks, Charles. You’re the man.”
“You’ve got no idea, even after all these years.” Charles clicked off, and Blake shivered with a lovely tingling in her palms and spine.
The Wishman Spears building could really be hers, soon! Maybe it’s a good omen for the day.
#
“All rise,” called the bailiff. “The Honorable Judge Eliza Stone, presiding.”
Blake stood, as did Carmen M. Morales, the attorney she’d hired to represent her in her divorce. Morales was regarded as the best family law attorney practicing in the Florida counties of Miami, Dade, and Broward.
Lang stood across the aisle, next to his own attorney. Thorne Martin Gruber specialized in representing the wealthy in divorce cases. Usually Gruber practiced in the Tampa area, but for the kind of money commanded by Lang and Blake Bertrand, he’d been willing to travel.
“You may be seated,” the bailiff announced when Judge Stone was settled on her bench. Blake, Lang, their attorneys, and the packed courtroom of spectators all sat, rustling skirts and jackets and thumping purses and briefcases.
No journalists were present in the courtroom. This was to be, by Blake’s request, a sealed decree of divorce, its exact terms known only to judge, attorneys, and ex-spouses Blake and Lang.
“In the matter of Bertrand versus Bertrand,
” Judge Stone intoned, “let me start by making an observation. Which is—rarely does anyone get everything they want in a court case.” She paused, then added, “Today will be no exception.”
Stone plopped a thick stack of paper, obviously numbering hundreds of pages, onto the desk in front of her. “There is simply no way I’m going to read this order of divorce in its entirety. I have provided both parties with a copy of the order, and I hereby enter this copy into the permanent court record. I don’t envy you that task.” The last statement was an aside to the court reporter, who grimaced as the bailiff picked up the order and handed it over to the reporter for audio recording and written transcription.
“This is the first time I’ve presided over the divorce of a couple whose holdings jointly total in excess of a billion dollars,” Stone continued, “and I hope and pray it will be my last time doing so. Most of my order consists of an itemized division of property, since the two of you couldn’t reach agreement in mediation.” Stone indulged in one scowl for Lang and another for Blake. “I have been as fair as I possibly can. To sum up, you each asked for everything, and neither of you can have it. Blake Bertrand owned assets of approximately $40 million prior to the marriage, and those she will keep. Everything else was earned during the marriage, and by law you each receive half.”
Blake grumbled noises rather than words. Her only comfort was seeing Lang’s color go ashen and his hands curl into fists.
“Fortunately there were no children at issue in this marriage, so custody matters are not a concern. Which brings me to a few motions filed by one side or the other, that I need to dispose of.” Stone shuffled a much smaller stack of papers, cleared her throat, and held one sheet up for her own reference as she continued.
“It has been requested by petitioner Ms. Blake Bertrand that a gag order be imposed on all present in this place at this time, and that the terms of the divorce order be sealed. This motion is granted.”
Morales flashed a smile at Blake. She smiled back at her attorney. This was an important win for them.
“Also requested by petitioner Ms. Blake Bertrand is a restraining order against Mr. Lang Bertrand.” Stone lowered the sheet of paper and leveled a stare at Blake. “My understanding is that you allege your husband attacked you only a week ago, at a party you were hosting. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Morales answered for Blake.
“It is also my understanding that you did not phone the police to report the attack. Correct?”
“Your Honor, my client—” began Morales, but Judge Stone cut her off.
“Answer yes or no, please, Counselor.”
Morales sucked in an audible breath before replying, “Yes, that’s correct, Your Honor.”
“I must, therefore, regard the allegation as hearsay. Your photographs and attending physician’s reports are accordingly dismissed from evidentiary consideration. However, there have been previous incidents when Petitioner did call law enforcement regarding her husband’s attacks on her. On the basis of that history of domestic violence, I hereby grant the motion. Bailiff will please present both parties with a copy of the prepared restraining order, valid for one year from today’s date but renewable if circumstances merit it. Lang Bertrand, you are ordered to stay a minimum of five hundred yards away from Blake Bertrand, except if you should decide to dispose of any property awarded to you that was acquired during the marriage. In that case a duly sworn police officer must witness the contact you have, and any proceeds from the disposition of property shall be divided equally.”
“Shhhiiiiit,” hissed Lang.
“Use such language in my courtroom again, and you’ll be spending the night in jail for contempt of court,” Judge Stone warned Lang, with a withering glare.
“To continue, a motion has been filed by Respondent asking that Petitioner pay him monthly alimony, unless and until such time as he remarries to a spouse of equal or greater net worth as Petitioner.” Renewing the withering glare, Judge Stone informed Lang, “Don’t be ridiculous. As of today you’re worth almost half a billion dollars of your own assets. Motion denied.”
Beside Lang, Gruber actually looked as if he’d just bitten into something sour. Morales winked at Blake, who struggled not to giggle.
“Finally, Petitioner has filed a motion asking that this court order Respondent’s last name be changed. My decision regarding this matter requires some explanation.”
Absolute silence prevailed in the courtroom. Everyone gave Judge Stone their full attention, waiting with breathless curiosity to hear the outcome.
“When a man and woman marry, it is common for the woman to legally adopt her husband’s surname as her own. If the man and woman subsequently divorce, the woman may keep her former husband’s last name if she wishes, or as part of the divorce order may change her surname back to her maiden name or even a different name of her choosing. The former husband cannot make that decision for her.”
Blake glanced at Morales, whose lips were turned down in a frown of disapproval. Uh-oh. My attorney doesn’t like the sound of this any more than I do.
“It doesn’t happen often, but occasionally when a man and woman marry the man legally adopts the wife’s surname as his surname also. I find no reason why a wife should have the power to strip her former husband of her name that he chose to adopt, when a husband does not have the same power with regard to his former wife. Petitioner’s motion to order Respondent’s surname changed is therefore denied.”
She couldn’t help herself. “Judge Stone, please—”
The judge rapped her gavel on a wooden block sitting on her desk. “Order in the court!” sang out the bailiff.
“I understand your reasons for filing that motion, Ms. Bertrand, and I sympathize with your disappointment. However, I can’t rule any other way than I’ve done,” said Judge Stone. “This court decrees the marriage of Lang and Blake Bertrand dissolved. It is so ordered. There will be a ten-minute recess.”
Judge Stone stood and retreated into her chamber, and everyone shuffled out of the courtroom. Morales groped for her purse and briefcase with one hand, tapping away on her iPhone with her other hand. Blake let her breath out slowly, gathering her purse and retrieving her BlackBerry from it.
A text message awaited her, from Morales:
Damn it, I need to call Charles and ask how negotiations are going with the Wishman family. Blake bit back all the expletives invading her thoughts. But I’m paying Morales too much to ignore her advice. She trailed after her attorney, one of several women moving toward the women’s bathroom. Here and there a supporter congratulated her on being single again, and she murmured her thanks.
Inside the bathroom, Blake took a stall as Morales had directed her. Morales positioned herself by the window, and Blake could hear her carrying on a series of brief conversations: “Hola, Miguel. I’ll be back at the office within the hour. Everything set up for the deposition with Señor Ruiz this afternoon? Good, bueno.” “Nicole? Hi, Carmen here. Listen, I’m still waiting for your… Yes, that’s right. I can’t really proceed without that. Lunchtime? Sure, that will be fine, just leave it with Miguel.” “Good morning, who am I speaking with? Oh, Stephanie, I’m sorry, you sounded different just now. I need to talk to someone in the DA’s office…”
While Morales took care of business, Blake summoned up local news on the BlackBerry. Every local television station was broadcasting from the courthouse steps, where Lang and Gruber were answering questions:
“Lang, can you tell us—”
“Mr. Bertrand, please.” Lang grinned like a cat that just ate someone’s pet hamster.
“My client and I can’t comment on specifics of his divorce,” Gruber announced, “and by the judge’s order neither can anyone else. However, my client’s name remains Lang Bertrand, so please address him accordingly.”
“Bastards.” Blake killed the BlackBerry’s Internet conn
ection.
Gradually the bathroom emptied of occupants except for Morales and herself. Her attorney wrapped up her latest phone call, and then said, “Blake? Let’s talk.”
Blake emerged from the stall and leaned against one of the sinks. She didn’t know what to say, so she simply watched Morales expectantly.
Morales examined Blake for a moment. “I thought I told you to take some breaths.”
“You did, but I don’t understand why.”
“Because you’re off-balance and need to center yourself.” Morales gestured at the mirror over the sink, and Blake looked at her reflection. “See what you’re doing?”
Shaking her head, and watching herself do so, Blake replied, “Just waiting for you to explain what this is all about.”
“Mira que cosa tiene la mujer esta.” Morales gave Blake a quirky grin.
“This isn’t I Love Lucy.” Blake couldn’t help grinning back, though.
Morales pointed to the mirror. “You’re touching that scar on your forehead. I know what that means. Do you?”
Blake shrugged her shoulders. “That I should get plastic surgery to remove it?”
“You do that when you feel insecure. Breathe, Blake.” Morales took a deep breath and beckoned to Blake to follow her example. They breathed together a few times, and then Morales nodded satisfaction. “That’s good. Now listen. I know you wanted to take the Bertrand name away from Lang, but we talked about what you can do if that request was denied. Let him have it. The name Blake is still yours alone. Roll with that.”
Again, Blake breathed. She felt like screaming instead. “But the raven—”
“Per Judge Stone’s divorce order, neither of you can use the raven logo anymore. Find a symbol that represents Blake to you, and make a new logo from that.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.” Sadness filled Morales’s eyes. “Divorce is a kind of death. You’ve lost something you loved, and you’ve got to grieve and that never feels good. The good thing, though, is that there’s life after divorce. You can resurrect yourself. Make it your mission to bring Blake back to life.”