Chapter 18 - The House We Chose Together
The house was terrible.
I loved it immediately.
The roof needed work.
The electrical system frightened Noah.
The kitchen had been renovated badly in the nineteen-eighties and appeared to contain seven different shades of brown.
The upstairs bathroom had a bathtub positioned beneath a window in a way that made privacy theoretical.
“It’s perfect,” I said.
Noah stared at me.
“You’re an architect.”
“I’m a designer.”
“You know enough to understand the phrase structural concern.”
I stepped over a loose floorboard.
“Character.”
“Rot.”
“History.”
“Mold.”
The inspector cleared his throat.
“We should probably discuss the basement.”
Noah closed his eyes.
Still, we bought it.
Together.
That word mattered.
Not his house.
Not mine.
Not a family property.
Not part of a settlement.
We sat with attorneys.
Reviewed percentages.
Discussed what would happen if one of us died.
What would happen if the marriage ended.
Romantic?
Not traditionally.
But I had already lived through a marriage where refusing uncomfortable conversations was mistaken for trust.
This time, transparency felt like intimacy.
During renovations, we disagreed.
Actually disagreed.
About the kitchen wall.
About windows.
About whether old floors should be refinished or replaced.
The first time Noah became frustrated and walked outside, my body reacted before my mind did.
I stood frozen beside a stack of tile samples.
My heart raced.
In my marriage to Grant, anger could become silence for days.
Withdrawal.
Punishment.
A room where I would eventually apologize just to restore normality.
Noah returned five minutes later carrying two coffees.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I stared.
“What?”
“I was getting irritated and needed air.”
“That’s all?”
He looked confused.
“Yes.”
“You’re not going to disappear for the weekend?”
“No.”
“Or refuse to speak to me?”
“No.”
“Or tell me the argument proves I’m impossible?”
His expression changed.
He put down the coffee.
“Claire.”
I hated the pity that threatened to appear in his face.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not.”
“You look like you feel sorry for me.”
“I feel angry that someone trained you to expect punishment every time you disagree.”
The words hit hard.
I sat on a paint bucket.
Noah crouched in front of me.
“We can argue,” he said. “We will argue.”
“I know.”
“You can be wrong.”
“I object.”
He smiled.
“I can be wrong.”
“That seems more likely.”
“Probably.”
I laughed shakily.
“But neither of us has to make the other person afraid in order to win.”
I nodded.
Then I chose the windows.
He chose the floors.
We compromised on the kitchen wall.
Marriage preparation, apparently, was mostly construction dust.
Meanwhile, Conrad’s case moved toward trial.
His lawyers challenged evidence.
Negotiated.
Filed motions.
Rumors of a plea circulated.
Then disappeared.
Sloane continued cooperating.
Grant continued visiting the twins.
Eleanor moved into a smaller home.
Smaller, in her world, meant only six bedrooms.
Hannah sent me the listing and wrote:
A tragedy. How will she cope?
I nearly choked on my coffee.
Then the prosecutor’s office contacted Leah.
There was a possibility I would testify.
My stomach tightened.
“About what?”
“The forged authorizations. Your financial interests. Your communications with Conrad.”
“Will I have to be in the same room?”
“Possibly.”
I thought I was past fear.
I was wrong.
That night, I dreamed of the conference room.
Twenty-eight million dollars.
Sloane’s hand on her stomach.
Conrad saying I had had eight years.
Except in the dream, when I tried to leave, the elevator would not open.
I woke sweating.
Noah sat up.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
The word came automatically.
Then I corrected myself.
“Conrad.”
I told him.
He listened without saying I was safe.
I appreciated that.
Safety was not a spell.
Instead, he asked, “What would make testifying easier?”
“Knowing exactly what happens.”
“Then ask Leah.”
“I don’t want to sound weak.”
Noah looked at me.
“You’re considering giving evidence against a man who forged your signature and tried to blame you for his crimes.”
I said nothing.
“Wanting information sounds organized.”
The next morning, I asked Leah every question.
Where I would sit.
Who could be present.
How cross-examination worked.
Whether I could request breaks.
What documents might be shown.
Knowledge did not erase fear.
It gave fear edges.
Something I could hold.
Two weeks later, a trial date was set.
One month before my wedding.
The timing felt almost insulting.
When I told Olivia, she sighed.
“Rich people really are terrible at respecting calendars.”
I laughed.
Then she asked, “Do you want to postpone?”
I looked across the half-renovated house at Noah.
He was arguing with a cabinet door.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
May you like
Conrad had taken enough dates from my life.
He was not getting this one.
