Page 10 of Ella Gets the D
“Not for long, Mr. Hudson.” Her eyes move to his lawyer. “We’d like to settle this matter and avoid a trial. Adultery—”
“I said I was—”
Charles’s attorney pats his hand and nods at the empty chair beside him. It’s a request to sit down and shut up, one he obliges. After a brief exchange of whispers, Mr. Richardson turns to face me with a smile that doesn’t match his calculated stare.
He touches the trimmed beard framing his face. “Adultery is a serious allegation that is very difficult to prove, Ella.” My name comes out with a familiarity that isn’t there. No “Ms. Greene” or “Mrs. Hudson.” Mr. Richardson is keeping Charles in line so he doesn’t look like the live wire he is. “Are you sure you want to end your marriage over a misunderstanding?”
“Amisunderstanding? I heard my husband screwing another woman in our bed. I spoke to her. There’s nothing I missed or need to understand.”
He adjusts his copper-framed glasses at an unhurried pace. He’s completely relaxed, as if infidelity is a pesky inconvenience, like waiting in a long line at the grocery store when you only have two items. “Adultery requires clear and convincing evidence in a divorce proceeding. Your testimony won’t be enough.”
“But this is.”
Charles and Mr. Richardson turn to Grier. She pushes her black curls over her shoulder and hovers over her laptop at the end of the table. The flatscreen TV above the fireplace turns on. I haven’t been in many conference rooms, but this one is pretty glam.
White paneled walls. White oak floors. Linen chairs. Grier Santiago is doing the damn thing with her practice.
“Mr. Hudson, would you please do me a favor and log in to your Amazon account?” The website appears on the screen behind her. Grier looks up from her laptop and smiles. She has her mother’s chestnut eyes and high cheekbones. “I promise not to save your information and go on a shopping spree. The attorney fees you’ll pay if this goes to court will cover that.”
He scoffs but thinks better of trying to correct her again about my last name. “You wish.” Charles stands and buttons his navy blazer. He reaches Grier in two strides and whacks the keyboard with his index finger to enter his password. “If you could finish whatever” —he waves a hand at the TV—“this is quickly. I didn’t come to DC to shop two-day shipping deals, and I’ll will charge youmyfee if you waste more of my time.”
Something flashes in Grier’s eyes. “Understood. Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Hudson? This will all be over soon.”
I resist the urge to look across the table at the green eyes that are burning a hole through the side of my neck. Charles wants answers, and he’s about to get them.
Grier continues once he sits. “This is your account, correct?”
“I signed in to the fucking thing, didn’t I?”
“Do you acknowledge your client’s confirmation that this is his account, Mr. Richardson?” At his nod, she clicks on Orders and scrolls through last-minute school purchases for Jackson. It’s amazing how much stuff a first-grader needs. “Does Ella have access to this account?”
“Yes,” Charles says.
“Does she make most of the purchases?”
He huffs. “Does it matter?”
“Just curious.”
Here comes another eye roll. “Yes. I got the account for her to buy what she needs for the house and kids.”
Grier stops at a purchase from three weeks ago and clicks on it. Then she switches tabs to a website. “Want to do the honors, Ella?”
I stand and smooth out my black pencil skirt and ivory blouse. The gold bracelets on my right wrist clink with each step of these red peep-toe ankle-strap heels. Charles’s eyes flick to the chunky gold choker around my neck, then drop to my feet.
Never again.
The wardrobe Charles’s monthly allowance provided me belongs to someone with a corner office instead of a child-wrangler who specializes in the art of potty training and navigating elementary school curricula. Appearances have always been more important to him than comfort—which is not to say that stay-at-home parents aren’t worthy of dressier clothes. I just prefer ripped jeans to a cardigan and pearls. But I heard his lectures on repeat.
I am the CFO of a multi-billion-dollar organization. What would people think if they saw my wife in mom jeans?
That I have a nice ass and don’t wear pretentiousness like a uniform? I hate dressing up, but if it’s for my divorce, consider this a suit of armor. My days of being his shiny plaything are over.
Grier winks when I type in the password.
Showtime.
“Ms. Greene—”
