Chapter 3 - The Cold War at Breakfast
Tuesday morning was gray and drizzling over Richmond.
Colin was sitting at the marble kitchen island at seven-fifteen, a mug of black coffee in one hand and his iPad propped against the fruit bowl in the other. He was dressed in his navy bespoke suit, his hair still damp from the shower, smelling of the expensive sandalwood shaving cream I had bought him for his birthday two months ago.
Iris was in her high chair, methodically mashing banana into the tray. Leo was attempting to feed his rubber spoon to the family golden retriever, Buster, who sat patiently beside his chair.
"We have that firm dinner on Thursday," Colin said without looking up from an article on corporate tax revisions. "The Henderson reception at the Commonwealth Club. I need you to find a sitter."
I stood at the stove, flipping whole-wheat pancakes with a black silicone spatula. I hadn't slept more than two hours. My eyes burned, but I had spent forty-five minutes before the kids woke up doing my makeup—foundation, mascara, a clean swipe of neutral lip color. I was wearing clean jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater. I didn't look frantic. I didn't look like a woman who had spent the night downloading bank records.
"Thursday?" I asked, keeping my tone light, mildly conversational. "I thought you said Miles and Celia were hosting an informal thank-you dinner for the wedding party this week."
Colin didn't miss a beat. His eyes stayed glued to the screen.
"That was postponed. Celia’s exhausted from the honeymoon prep, and Miles is behind on his caseload. Thursday is Henderson. It's important, Clara. Henderson is deciding the senior partner assignments for the commercial litigation group before December."
"Of course," I said, setting three miniature pancakes onto Iris’s tray. "Is Elena Vance coming?"
Colin’s thumb paused over the glass screen.
It was barely a second—a micro-stutter in his breathing, the slight tightening of the tendons in his right forearm. Then he swiped to the next page of the PDF.
"Elena? Why would Elena be there? She’s in D.C."
"I thought Miles mentioned she does contract work for Henderson's PAC," I said evenly, pouring milk into Leo’s cup. "At the wedding, someone said she was spending more time down in Richmond lately."
Colin took a slow sip of his coffee. When he set the mug down, his expression was that familiar blend of mild condescension and clinical patience he used when explaining legal terminology to non-lawyers.
"Clara, you shouldn't listen to gossip by the bar. Elena Vance is Miles’s cousin. Her firm handles administrative filings in the District. She doesn't have anything to do with Henderson’s group." He looked up, his gaze sweeping over my face, evaluating my expression with the precision of a cross-examiner. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason," I said, meeting his eyes directly, offering him a pleasant, placid smile. "Just curious. She looked stunning on Saturday. That hunter-green silk was incredible. I was wondering who the designer was."
Colin’s eyes narrowed slightly. He picked up his linen napkin, touched his mouth, and checked his watch.
"I didn't notice what she was wearing," he said smoothly, sliding off the barstool. "I was a little preoccupied with keeping the wedding on schedule after my wife decided to stage an early exit."
There it was. The counterpunch. The immediate, reflexive pivot back to my perceived failure as a shield for his own guilt.
A week ago, that comment would have made my throat close up. I would have started apologizing again, stammering explanations about Max’s fever and the three-car-seat logistics. I would have spent the rest of the morning carrying a heavy, leaden weight of guilt in the pit of my stomach.
Today, it was just data.
"Right," I said softly. "The early exit."
"Just make sure the sitter is locked down for Thursday by noon," he said, picking up his leather briefcase from the counter. He walked around the island, leaned down, and kissed the top of my head—a dry, perfunctory peck. "We need to be at the Commonwealth Club by seven sharp. Don't be late. First impressions with Henderson are everything."
"Have a good day at the office, Colin," I said.
The heavy front door clicked shut behind him. His BMW’s engine rumbled to life in the driveway, its sound fading down the quiet suburban street.
I waited until the sound was completely gone.
Then I picked up my phone from the counter, pulled a business card out of my back pocket, and dialed a number with an 804 area code.
The card belonged to *Rachel Sterling, Sterling & Vance Family Law Partners.*
I had found her name at two o'clock that morning. She was one of the fiercest divorce litigators in Central Virginia. More importantly, she had spent four years as a partner at the firm Colin’s father had founded before splitting off to run her own boutique practice. She knew every dirty trick corporate lawyers used to hide assets, undervalue stock options, and intimidate stay-at-home spouses into signing lopsided separation agreements.
"Sterling Law," a professional receptionist answered on the second ring.
May you like
"Good morning," I said, my voice steady, low, and crystal clear. "My name is Clara Miller. I need to schedule an urgent consultation with Rachel Sterling regarding a high-asset contested divorce. And I need it scheduled before Thursday afternoon."
***
