9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Nicole
Nicole sat behind the desk in her father’s downstairs office with a notebook open in front of her and called Alexander. He answered before the first ring had finished.
“Nicole.”
The sound of his voice pulled at her. She pressed the pen harder against the page.
“This call is about Prim and Rose.”
There was a pause. “All right.”
No plea. No question about whether she’d changed her mind. Nicole had prepared herself to stop both.
“They go to Little Oaks Monday through Friday,” she said. “Drop-off is at eight-thirty. Pickup is at twelve-thirty. They eat lunch at school before pickup, but they’ll usually ask for a snack in the car.”
“What kind of snack?”
Nicole hadn’t expected the question. “Nothing messy. Cheese, crackers, cut fruit. No granola bars with whole nuts. The school doesn’t allow them because of allergies in the class.”
“I’m writing it down,” he said.
She heard the faint movement of paper. Alexander had often claimed he remembered everything important. Apparently, he had found a pen.
“They nap after they get home,” Nicole continued. “Usually around one-thirty. Rose will tell you she isn’t tired. She’s lying. Prim will ask for another book. Give them one, not four, or nobody sleeps.”
“One extra book.”
“They have music on Tuesday afternoons and swim lessons on Thursday. I can handle those for now. Their regular bedtime routine starts at seven. Bath, pajamas, two books, the bear voice, their song, then lights out.”
His voice dropped. “I know about the bear voice and the song.”
“Knowing they exist isn’t the same as being there to do them.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Again, he didn’t defend himself. Nicole stared at the neat list she’d made before calling. Her pulse was still too fast, but the conversation remained on track.
“I’m keeping them at Little Oaks,” she said. “It’s familiar. Their teachers know what’s happened with Prim’s injury, and the girls don’t need another change.”
“I agree.”
“The drive from Hancock Park is much longer than it was from Bel Air. I’m doing it anyway.”
“Let me send a car.”
Her shoulders tightened.
“One of ours can stay at your parents’ house,” Alexander continued. “You can have a driver available for every school run. You won’t have to arrange anything.”
“No.”
“Nicole, traffic from Hancock Park to Brentwood is–”
“I know what the traffic is.”
He stopped.
“I have my own car,” she said. “My parents can help if I need them. I don’t want a Cohan car sitting outside their house, and I don’t want one of your employees reporting my movements back to your office.”
“They wouldn’t report to me,” he said.
“Maybe not because you asked. But everything in your life reports back to you eventually. I’m stepping outside that system.”
He didn’t answer at once, and she wondered whether his anger had returned.
“Understood,” he said. “No car.”
Nicole loosened her grip on the pen.
“You can pick them up from preschool Wednesday and Friday,” she said. “Bring them back here by seven. On Saturday, you can have them from nine until seven. No overnight yet.”
“Can I put them to bed Wednesday?”
“Not at your house. They need to settle here. You can do dinner and bring them back for their routine.”
“Could I do the routine at your parents’ house? I won’t stay after.”
The request was reasonable. That didn’t make it easy.
“I’ll think about it,” Nicole said. “For now, plan to bring them back by seven.”
“All right.”
“I’ll tell Little Oaks you’re authorized to pick them up. Take your ID. Don’t send anyone else in your place. If work interferes, you call me yourself before pickup.”
“Work won’t interfere.”
She remembered every other promise he’d made. Nicole looked toward the closed office door. In the hall, Prim and Rose argued with their grandmother over which pair of shoes belonged to whom. Their voices were bright, ordinary, and close.
“If it does,” Nicole said, “you call. You don’t send Vicky, a driver, or a member of your staff. You don’t leave the girls waiting at school while someone finds you.”
“I understand.”
She wanted to believe him. That was the dangerous part. Hope had always returned faster than trust deserved.
“I’m sending the full schedule by email,” she said. “It’ll include their teachers’ contact information, activities, meals, naps, bedtime, Prim’s follow-up, and anything else you need. There won’t be room for misunderstandings.”
“Send it directly to me. Not Vicky.”
“I was planning to.”
“Thank you for giving me time with them.”
Nicole closed her eyes. The gratitude hurt because a father shouldn’t have needed to thank his wife for access to children who’d begged for him.
“They’re your daughters,” she said. “I want them to have you. I need you to prove they can depend on you.”
“I will.”
She ended the call before the words could become another argument inside her.
Prim and Rose were waiting near the front door with their grandmother by the time Nicole left the office. Prim wore one white shoe and one pink one. Rose held both missing matches behind her back.
“Rose,” Nicole said.
“They’re mine.”
“All four?”
Rose considered this. “Yes.”
“That seems excessive,” Nicole’s mother said.
“I need choices.”
Nicole crouched and held out her hand. “You can choose your own shoes. You can’t choose Prim’s too.”
Rose handed over the pink shoe with a deep sigh. Prim immediately pulled it on.
“Daddy’s getting us?” Prim asked.
“Wednesday,” Nicole said. “Daddy will pick you up from school.”
Both girls went still.
“Really Daddy?” Rose asked. “Not Vicky?”
The question hurt.
“Really Daddy,” she confirmed.
Prim bounced once, then caught herself. “He promised before.”
“I know, baby.”
“Is he coming?”
Nicole wouldn’t promise for him again. “He knows where to be.”
That answer didn’t satisfy Prim, but their grandmother moved them toward the door before the questions could multiply.
Nicole drove the girls across the city to Brentwood.
The familiar tree-lined street and Little Oaks building calmed them before she parked.
Rose pointed toward the painted gate. Prim announced that she needed to show her teacher the pink mark on her stomach where the adhesive strips had finally come off, even though her teacher had already seen the injury.
Nicole walked both girls inside. She spoke briefly with the front office about adding Alexander to the pickup list, kissed Prim and Rose, and watched them run toward their classroom without looking back.
Keeping them there meant more driving and less room in every workday. It was still the right choice. Their marriage had become uncertain. Their home had changed. Their father had become a question they didn’t know how to ask without fear. Their school would remain the same.
Nicole returned to her car and drove to Century City. She’d scheduled the consultation after Alexander left her parents’ house.
Harold Sutton’s office was quiet and restrained. There were no family photographs on his desk and no dramatic shelves of legal books behind him. A wide window showed the city below. The calm helped until Harold opened the folder with her name on it.
“Before we begin,” he said, “are you asking me to file for divorce?”
“No. I need information.”
“Then information is what I’ll give you. Nothing moves unless you instruct me.”
Nicole sat straighter. “Alexander doesn’t know I’m here.”
“He doesn’t need to know you’ve asked for legal advice. This meeting is private.”
She nodded, but her hands remained locked together in her lap. Her wedding ring pressed into her opposite palm. She had left Alexander’s house, but she hadn’t taken it off.
Harold glanced at her hands. “What are you most afraid of?”
The direct question loosened something in her.
“His money,” she admitted. “His name. The company. He can hire every lawyer in Los Angeles if he wants to. I have my own money, but not Cohan money. Nobody has Cohan money except the Cohans.”
“Money gives him resources,” Harold said. “It doesn’t give him ownership of you or your children.”
Nicole let out a breath.
He opened the prenup. “I’ve reviewed the agreement.
Your influencer income, platform, current business interests, and anything built from those separate assets remain yours.
The prenup also provides a substantial financial settlement if the marriage ends.
You wouldn’t leave this marriage dependent on Alexander’s goodwill. ”
“Could he challenge it?”
“Anyone can start a fight. That doesn’t mean they’ll win it. The agreement was negotiated by separate counsel, the disclosures were extensive, and the terms don’t leave you without support. I see no reason to treat it as fragile.”
Nicole looked at the thick document. She’d signed it before the wedding without resentment.
Alexander had insisted that she have her own lawyer and had refused to let the agreement punish her for having less money when they met.
At the time, it had felt like a practical matter they would never need. Now it proved she could leave safely.
“What about the house?” she asked.
“The Bel Air property is addressed in the agreement, along with other marital assets. If you decide to file, we’ll go through each category. You don’t need to solve that today.”
“And child support?”
“Prim and Rose’s support isn’t something either parent can sign away in a private agreement. Their needs and both parents’ financial positions would be considered. Alexander would remain responsible for supporting them.”
Nicole almost laughed. The idea that Alexander might fail to pay for anything was absurd. Money had never been the missing part.
“I’m more worried about custody,” she said.
“Then let’s talk about custody. A court focuses on the children’s best interests. Stability matters. Their relationship with each parent matters. The history of who provided daily care matters. So does each parent’s willingness to support the girls’ relationship with the other parent.”
“Alexander is barely present,” she said.
“That history is relevant. It isn’t a permanent sentence if he changes, and it doesn’t mean his wealth gives him more right to the girls than you have.”
“Could he take them because the Bel Air house is their home? Because he has more security or staff?”
“No court awards children to the parent with the largest house. Staff also aren’t a substitute for a parent.”
Some of the tension left Nicole’s body. Her shoulders lowered. Her fingers separated.
“If I filed, what happens first?”
Harold explained in plain terms. A petition, formal notice, and requests for temporary orders if they couldn’t agree on parenting arrangements. Financial information exchanged through lawyers. None of it required Nicole to surrender her daughters or her business.
“And if I don’t file?” she asked.
“Then you don’t file. You can remain separated while you decide. You can create a voluntary parenting schedule. You can come back later if you need me.”
“There’s no deadline?”
“Not one I’m going to invent for you.”
Nicole gave a weak smile. “You don’t sound like a man trying to earn a large fee.”
“I bill by the hour. Confusion is profitable enough without my creating more of it.”
She laughed, and the sound surprised her.
Harold closed the folder. “Do you want me to prepare anything?”
Nicole thought of Alexander alone in the Bel Air house. She thought of his anger in her father’s office, his promises, and the silence after her final message. She thought of Prim asking whether Daddy would truly come.
“No,” she said. “Not yet.”
She left Harold’s office with no petition and no decision about her marriage. But she had a choice.
Back in Hancock Park, Nicole claimed her father’s office for a different kind of meeting. Her phone sat on a stand under a bright light. Her laptop filled the desk, and product notes covered the corner where Alexander had watched the trailer recording.
Her content team appeared in boxes across the screen.
“Before anyone asks,” Nicole said, “I’m not discussing my marriage on my platform. We’re not confirming a separation, denying one, hinting at one, or turning it into engagement.”
Alexander Cohan was famous enough that of course everyone already knew his wife had left him. There were people who’d dedicated their lives to tracking what celebrities did every second of every day, and the news was already on the Internet.
Her business manager nodded. “We’ve already declined three interview requests.”
“Decline the rest.”
“What about comments?”
“Filter direct abuse. Flag anything that mentions the girls, our address, their school, or a threat. Don’t send me the worst of it unless I need to act.”
“We can keep the moderation report general,” her editor said. “Numbers and categories, no screenshots unless they’re important.”
“Good. I want to keep posting skincare content. We honor suitable brand work, we finish the education series, and we don’t pretend I’m available for every partnership right now.”
Another team member leaned closer to her camera. “The strange follower came back.”
Nicole’s stomach tightened. “Which one?”
“The account is new, but the language matches. Adoring comments about you, ugly comments about Alexander. They posted that he never deserved you and that you’re finally where people can see you.”
“Did they contact me directly?” she asked.
“Not from this account.”
“Save a screenshot, then block and report them. Don’t reply, don’t warn them, and don’t give them attention.”
“We’ll handle it.”
Nicole wanted to dismiss the account as one unpleasant person in an audience of millions. She had done that before. The returning language still left a cold feeling under her ribs. Manageable, she told herself. Her team had blocked the other accounts. They would block this one too.
The meeting moved back to work. They discussed the next edited video, rejected another brand claim that promised impossible results, and adjusted the posting schedule. Nicole made decisions. People listened. Nothing in the conversation required Alexander’s money, name, or permission.
When the call ended, she moved the laptop aside and adjusted the phone stand.
The office still looked borrowed. Her father’s files filled one cabinet, and the plain wall behind her lacked the clean warmth of her content room in Bel Air.
The light was good enough. Her knowledge hadn’t changed with her address.
Nicole checked the frame, smoothed one curl, and pressed record.
Her face appeared on the phone screen. Bright skin, clear blue eyes, a warm, professional smile.
“Hi, everyone,” she said. “Today we’re going to talk about what your moisturizer can actually do, and the promises no moisturizer should ever make.”
She sounded exactly like herself. No one watching would know how completely her life had changed.