Chapter 3 - The Woman They Called His Cousin
Rowan stood so quickly her chair struck the table.
“We need to go.”
I remained seated.
“No.”
“Saraphina.”
“You said you wanted me to know the truth.”
“I do.”
“Then sit down.”
“Aleric knows we’re here.”
“So?”
She stared at me as if I were insane.
“He’ll be furious.”
That sentence did something unexpected.
It made me laugh.
Not loudly.
But enough that Rowan stopped moving.
“For five years,” I said, “everyone has apparently organized their lives around Aleric’s comfort.”
“This isn’t about comfort.”
“No. It’s about control.”
“He can make things difficult.”
“He already has.”
I picked up my handbag.
“But I’m not having the confrontation in a hotel lobby.”
“Where are you going?”
“To my lawyer.”
“Saraphina—”
“You can come if you want.”
We used the service elevator.
Rowan knew the hotel well enough to find it without asking.
I noticed that.
I noticed everything now.
We exited through a side entrance and took separate cars to Hudson Yards.
Aleric called me six times.
I did not answer.
Desmond was standing outside his office when I arrived.
He saw Rowan behind me.
His expression hardened.
“I assume this is Ms. Carmichael.”
Rowan nodded.
Desmond gestured toward the conference room.
“Inside.”
For the next hour, Rowan told him everything.
The relationship had begun when she and Aleric were in their twenties.
They had never officially dated because Eleanor disliked Rowan’s family.
Her father had been successful but not Sterling successful.
Her mother had grown up working class.
That distinction apparently mattered to Eleanor.
Then Aleric met me.
Saraphina Mercer.
Daughter of a surgeon and a university professor.
Columbia Law.
Proper connections.
Proper education.
Proper everything.
I hated the way Rowan explained it.
As if I had been selected from a catalog.
“Aleric said marrying Saraphina made sense,” Rowan said quietly.
Desmond stopped writing.
I felt my throat tighten.
“What exactly did he say?” he asked.
Rowan looked at me.
“I don’t want to hurt you more.”
“That stopped being possible five years ago.”
She swallowed.
“He said Eleanor approved of you.”
I looked down.
“And?”
“He said marriage didn’t have to change what we had.”
Desmond’s jaw tightened.
I stared at Rowan.
“The promise.”
She nodded.
“The night before your wedding, he told me he was choosing responsibility over emotion. He said he would marry you, produce heirs, run the family business, do everything expected of him.”
“And you?”
“He said I would always be the person he loved.”
There are sentences that hurt instantly.
Then there are sentences that hurt in layers.
That one took time.
My first reaction was humiliation.
My second was anger.
The third was something stranger.
Relief.
Because suddenly five years of confusion made sense.
The distance.
The coldness.
The way affection always felt scheduled.
The way Aleric seemed satisfied with our marriage even when I felt desperately lonely.
He had never been trying to create intimacy.
He had been fulfilling an arrangement.
I was the arrangement.
Rowan was the life he wanted hidden behind it.
Desmond asked, “Did Mr. Sterling ever discuss ending the marriage?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Rowan’s eyes moved toward me.
“He said divorce would embarrass Eleanor.”
Of course.
Not hurt me.
Not destroy our family.
Embarrass Eleanor.
Desmond continued.
“When did Julian become part of the discussion?”
“When I found out I was pregnant.”
“How did Aleric react?”
“He was happy.”
That hurt too.
I had spent years watching his face whenever pregnancy came up.
Neutral.
Impatient.
Occasionally irritated.
Meanwhile another woman had told him she was carrying his child, and he had been happy.
Rowan looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Keep going.”
“He wanted me to have the baby.”
“Did Eleanor know?”
“Not immediately.”
“When did she find out?”
“Six months into the pregnancy.”
“And her reaction?”
“She called me.”
“Directly?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Rowan hesitated.
“That the child deserved the Sterling name.”
Desmond leaned forward.
“Did she discuss custody?”
“Not then.”
“But later?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She offered me money.”
My stomach turned.
“How much?”
“Enough to pay everything my family owed.”
“In exchange for Julian?”
“In exchange for stepping aside.”
“And you refused?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
Tears appeared in Rowan’s eyes.
“I was scared.”
I wanted to hate her cleanly.
She kept making it difficult.
“I was alone,” she said. “My mother was drowning in debt. I had stopped working near the end of the pregnancy. Aleric kept saying Julian would have every advantage.”
“So you accepted?”
“I agreed to temporary guardianship while I got back on my feet.”
“Not adoption.”
“Never.”
Desmond wrote something.
“Do you have a copy?”
“Yes.”
She opened her bag.
When Desmond read the agreement, his expression changed.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at Rowan.
“Who represented you?”
“A lawyer Aleric arranged.”
Desmond’s eyes sharpened.
“Of course he did.”
“What is it?”
“This document gives broad temporary authority. Broader than I’d like.”
“But temporary?”
“Yes. On its face.”
“On its face?”
“There are additional referenced documents not attached here.”
Rowan frowned.
“I was told they were routine.”
“Nothing is routine when someone else’s attorney tells you that.”
He stood.
“I need copies of everything you signed.”
“They’re in my apartment.”
“Get them.”
Rowan nodded.
After she left, I sat quietly.
Desmond came around the table.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Good answer.”
I laughed bitterly.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”
“You’re not required to know today.”
I looked at him.
“What happens if Julian is being adopted without Rowan understanding what she signed?”
“We determine whether that is actually happening.”
“And if it is?”
“We stop guessing and start litigating.”
The old legal language steadied me.
Litigating.
Evidence.
Documents.
Rights.
For the first time, Aleric’s world did not feel invincible.
It felt procedural.
That mattered.
I returned to Greenwich before dinner.
Aleric was waiting in the living room.
Alone.
“Where were you?”
“Manhattan.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Were you with Rowan?”
“Yes.”
He stared.
I walked toward the stairs.
“We’re not finished.”
I turned.
“With what?”
“You met her behind my back.”
I almost smiled.
“That is an extraordinary sentence for you to say.”
His face changed.
“Saraphina.”
“No, please. Continue. Explain why secret meetings are suddenly offensive to you.”
He lowered his voice.
“You don’t understand the situation.”
“Then explain it.”
“Rowan is unstable.”
I had expected excuses.
Not that one.
“Unstable?”
“She’s emotional. She regrets decisions she made.”
“What decisions?”
“About Julian.”
“So she is Julian’s mother.”
He froze.
There it was.
The first crack.
Small.
But real.
I continued.
“And you are his father.”
He said nothing.
“You might want to answer carefully,” I added.
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of being lied to.”
Aleric stepped closer.
Not threateningly.
Deliberately.
“You went through my things.”
“I didn’t say I did.”
“You know about Rowan.”
“Your mother told the housekeeper Julian looks exactly like you.”
His jaw tightened.
“Mother talks too much.”
“That would be funny if it weren’t the closest thing to honesty anyone has offered me.”
He turned away.
“Fine.”
One word.
Then he faced me.
“Yes. Julian is mine.”
I waited.
Aleric seemed almost relieved.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“When things were settled.”
“Define settled.”
“The custody arrangements.”
“Adoption?”
His eyes flickered.
“Possibly.”
“Rowan says she never agreed.”
“Rowan says many things.”
“She says you were sleeping with her throughout our marriage.”
Silence.
I had expected denial.
He did not give me one.
That hurt worse.
“How long?” I asked.
“Saraphina.”
“How long?”
He exhaled.
“It was complicated.”
“Five years is not complicated.”
“Rowan and I have history.”
“And I was what? Administration?”
His expression hardened.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
There are insults so absurd they clarify everything.
I had just learned my husband had maintained an affair through most of our marriage and fathered a child with the woman.
And somehow I was dramatic.
“I’m going upstairs.”
“We are not finished.”
“Yes,” I said. “We are.”
I slept in the guest room.
At 2:11 in the morning, I woke to my phone vibrating.
Rowan.
I answered.
“Hello?”
She was crying.
Not loudly.
Panicked.
“Saraphina, someone has been in my apartment.”
I sat up.
“What?”
“My filing cabinet is open.”
“Call the police.”
“I did.”
“What’s missing?”
“The guardianship documents.”
My stomach dropped.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“The original letter about the trust.”
I got out of bed.
Then Rowan whispered something that made me stop.
“There was an envelope on my kitchen table.”
“What envelope?”
“It has your name on it.”
I gripped the phone.
“Open it.”
“I already did.”
Silence.
“Rowan?”
Her voice became barely audible.
“Saraphina, it’s a copy of your prenuptial agreement.”
My blood went cold.
May you like
Then she said:
“There’s a page attached that I don’t think you’ve ever seen.”
