“Do it,” you told her.
Then you called the locksmith, the security company, and a bonded moving crew that specialized in discreet separations for very rich people who had just stopped loving one another politely. By one-thirty, two men in navy polos were at the front entry changing the cylinder locks while another updated the fingerprint access on the side garage door. You watched them work from the foyer and felt something close to gratitude for competence.
At two, Claire arrived in person.
She walked into the kitchen in heels sharp enough to qualify as a warning and set down a leather portfolio on your island like she was placing a weapon on a table. She was in her early forties, dark hair twisted up, expression dry and unbothered, the kind of woman who made men explain themselves more carefully without even raising her voice. After ten minutes with the statements and deed copies, she looked up and said, “He has a very temporary understanding of permanence.”
That sentence steadied you.
