Part 2
Grant smiled when I asked him that.
It was not a warm smile. It was the kind men wear when they think a woman’s silence means confusion instead of calculation.
“Charlotte,” he said, almost kindly, “I’m trying to avoid making this uglier than it needs to be.”
I looked back down at the papers and felt something settle inside me. Not rage. Rage is hot and messy. This was colder. A hard, clean line of focus.
The filing date was three days earlier. He had done this before the confrontation, before the speech, before the insult. That meant planning. That meant consultation. That meant someone had helped him decide I was vulnerable enough to corner.
I kept turning pages.
There were references to my “recent emotional volatility,” vague language about concern for my decision-making, and an implication that I had not meaningfully contributed to the marital estate. It was expertly written in the way dishonest documents often are—smooth, polished, technically cautious, designed to create a mood before they ever prove a fact.
“What condition?” I asked.
Grant exhaled through his nose, already irritated that I was making him explain himself. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“No,” I said. “Say it clearly.”
