Chapter 14—Christa
JAI SLIDES A SIX-PAGE trustee decision across her desk and waits while I start reading. I make it through four lines before looking up. “Permanent?”
“Permanent under this succession mechanism.” She taps the second page. “Tate is disqualified from receiving the voting transfer because the trustees found that he knowingly participated in a false certification attempt.”
It’s Thursday, six days after Charla left the trustees’ conference room in handcuffs. I came to Jai’s office this morning expecting a divorce settlement conference. Instead, I have a document telling me Tate managed to destroy the thing he valued enough to blow up our marriage for.
I read the paragraph again. “Can Bernard change it?”
Jai folds her hands over the edge of the desk. “Not by himself. The trust is irrevocable, and this provision gives the trustees final authority over bad-faith conduct. Tate can challenge their interpretation in court, but his own attorney advised him against it.”
I look over the top of the pages. “His attorney is ruining all my fun.”
“His attorney is trying to preserve whatever remains of his client’s life.” Jai’s mouth twitches. “Those goals aren’t necessarily compatible with yours.”
“Same objection.”
She almost smiles before pointing lower on the page. “Keep reading.”
I do, and the next section is even better.
The voting block stays under Bernard’s control while he’s alive, but Tate’s disqualification has broken the planned succession path.
Several company agreements were drafted around the assumption that Tate would eventually receive the controlling block.
Corporate counsel has already frozen two subsidiary mergers and a planned debt restructuring while everyone works out what happens without him.
I reach the paragraph that explains the default distribution if Bernard dies before the structure is repaired, then read it again. “Celeste.”
“And the other beneficiary trusts,” Jai says. She reaches across and turns the page toward herself. “The controlling block doesn’t pass intact to a replacement male heir. It divides under the default provisions.”
I lower the document. “The trust Tate used to justify putting a hypothetical son ahead of Celeste’s daughters could splinter his father’s voting control among the family trusts.”
“Eventually, if they can’t legally restructure before Bernard’s death.” Jai leans back. “They’re already trying to figure out how much can be repaired without violating the trust.”
A laugh works its way out of me. “Please tell me someone has explained that to Bernard.”
“Several expensive people.” She picks up her coffee.
I lean back in the chair. “How’s he taking it?”
Jai gives me a dry look over the rim of her cup. “I represent you.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only professional one you’re getting from me.”
I make a disappointed sound and return to the decision just as the conference-room door opens behind me. Jai’s assistant looks in. “They’re here.”
My good mood improves. “Send them in.”
Jai gives me a warning look. “Try to remember this is a settlement meeting.”
“I remember.” I fold the trustee decision neatly on the desk.
“You smiled when you said that.”
“I’ve had an excellent morning.”
Tate’s attorney enters first. Martin Graves has represented the Meade family for years, although Jai has dealt with him throughout the divorce. He’s in his sixties, silver-haired, conservative, and noticeably less cheerful than he was during our first settlement call.
Tate follows him, and I don’t recognize his suit. That shouldn’t matter, but it does. I bought most of the ones he wears for important meetings. He used to complain that I spent too much on them before accepting every garment without ever returning one.
This suit is dark gray and fits badly through the shoulders. His face looks worse. He hasn’t shaved properly, and there’s a reddish nick beneath his jaw. The expensive haircut he gets every three weeks is overdue. Six days shouldn’t make that much difference.
Apparently, they’ve been eventful.
Tate doesn’t greet me. He takes the chair opposite mine while Martin sits beside him and opens a leather portfolio.
Jai folds her arms on the desk. “Before we begin, I assume you’ve both received the trustees’ final decision.”
Martin nods. “We have.”
Tate keeps his gaze on the carpet.
I turn another page. “I’m enjoying mine.”
His head comes up, and Martin closes his eyes briefly.
Jai looks at me. “Christa.” There’s no real censure in her tone.
“What? He knows.” I rest the decision on my lap.
Tate settles back in his chair. “I’m glad you’re having fun.”
“I told you I would.”
“Yes. You’ve made that very clear.” He presses his mouth into a line. He’s lost the swagger from Friday. I almost miss it. Arrogance was more entertaining than this wounded performance.
Jai reaches for the settlement draft. “Mr. Graves sent a revised proposal yesterday. Tate will withdraw his objection to the requested divorce schedule and waive any claim against Christa’s studio, its assets, appreciation, or professional goodwill.
Each party keeps the assets held in their individual names before marriage.
The jointly titled residence will be transferred to Tate, with Christa receiving her documented contribution to the purchase, factoring appreciation. ”
“I don’t want the appreciation,” I say, keeping my attention on Jai.
Tate finally looks directly at me.
Jai nods because she already knows. “Christa is asking only for the amount she contributed from separate funds.”
Martin makes a note. “Agreed.”
Tate’s expression twists. “You could take more.”
“I know.” I fold my hands in my lap.
“Then why don’t you?” His voice is sharper now.
I put the trustee decision on Jai’s desk. “I don’t want anything from you that I didn’t bring into the marriage.”
He gives a bitter laugh. “Except my complete destruction.”
“That wasn’t part of the settlement.” I meet his gaze.
Martin shifts in his chair. Jai reaches for her pen, obviously trying not to react.
Tate notices too. “Everyone thinks that’s funny now.”
I study him. “A surprising number of things about this are funny.”
Martin intervenes before Tate can answer. “We’d like to finish the agreement today.”
“Please do,” Jai says, pulling the draft closer.
The next twenty minutes are ordinary enough to be almost disappointing.
We go through the house, two joint investment accounts, furniture, vehicles, insurance, and the contents of a storage unit Tate forgot we had.
I take my grandmother’s dining chairs, a painting Dad gave us, and three pieces I restored before the wedding.
Tate can have the rest, including the ridiculous sectional his mother chose.
When Martin reaches the mutual non-disparagement provision, I stop him. “No.”
Tate lifts his head. “Seriously?”
I keep my attention on Martin. “I’m not signing anything that requires me to lie about what happened.”
“The clause doesn’t require you to lie.” Martin turns the draft toward me. “It prevents either party from making intentionally damaging public statements.”
“Truth can be damaging.”
Jai takes the document back. “We’ve already rejected this provision twice. Christa won’t initiate a media campaign, but she isn’t agreeing to protect Tate from accurate answers if she’s asked about the divorce.”
Tate leans toward the desk. “Who is going to ask you?”
I turn to him. “People already have.”
His eyes narrow.
“Bellweather has apparently discovered gossip,” I say with a hint of mockery. “I’m sure it must shock you to know rich people enjoy idle gossip.”
“Christa.” He says my name like a warning.
I lift one shoulder. “What?”
Martin rubs the bridge of his nose. “We’ll strike it.”
“Thank you.”
Tate mutters something I don’t catch, but Jai does. Her attention shifts to him. “Would you like to repeat that?”
He looks toward the window. “No.”
We continue. By the time Martin reaches the signature page, nearly everything has been settled. The divorce still needs the court’s final approval, but Tate has agreed to stop contesting the schedule. Jai thinks we can have it completed much sooner than she initially expected.
Martin pushes the draft toward Tate, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he looks at me for several seconds before reaching inside his jacket.
Jai notices the movement and focuses on his hand until Tate pulls out a folded sheet of white paper. He puts it on the desk. “Did you know?”
I look at the paper, then him. “Know what?”
Tate doesn’t answer immediately.
Martin shifts beside him. “Tate.”
“I need to ask her.” He doesn’t look at his attorney.
Martin studies him for a moment, then sits back.
Tate nudges the folded paper toward me. “Did you know?”
I leave it where it is. “You’ve asked twice without telling me what you’re talking about.”
He opens the paper himself. I recognize the logo at the top. It’s the reproductive endocrinology practice my gynecologist referred us to almost two years ago. The same practice Tate refused to visit. I stop smiling.
His finger lands beside a block of test results. “I did the semen analysis.”
For a second, all I can hear is the faint whir from the vent above Jai’s bookcase.
Then I look at him. “When?”
“Monday.” Tate keeps his finger on the page.
I glance at the report again. “After three years of refusing?”
His expression hardens. “Answer the question.”
“I didn’t know you finally got tested.” I don’t touch the paper. “I certainly don’t know the results. How could I?”
He pushes the report closer. “They made me repeat it yesterday.”
Something in the way he says it makes me read. I know enough fertility terminology to understand the word before Tate explains anything.
Azoospermia.
No sperm observed in the first specimen.
No sperm observed in the repeat specimen.
The specialist’s notes recommend additional testing to determine the cause and whether surgical retrieval might be possible. I read the lines twice while Tate watches me. Jai says nothing, and Martin has become very interested in his portfolio.