“Let them,” I said.

I folded the paper carefully and placed it back in my pocket.

“They can take the firm.”

“They can take every dollar in the Boston accounts.”

“None of it matters anymore.”

“I am going to Maine to get my children.”

Marcus wiped the condensation from the side window with his sleeve.

“It won’t be that simple,” he said.

“Celeste has her own legal team.”

“She is already talking to your mother’s lawyers.”

I looked out at the dark trees lining the highway.

Celeste had been unusually quiet during our last confrontation.

She had not screamed or threatened divorce.

She had simply watched me with a cold, calculating expression.

“Marcus,” I said.

“Why did Celeste marry me?”

“She wanted the Whitmore name,” he said.

“And the estate in Manchester.”

“No,” I said.

“There is something else.”

“She knew I was declared infertile before we signed the prenuptial agreement.”

“She knew we would never have children.”

“Why would a woman who cared so much about legacy agree to that without question?”

Marcus slowed the car as we approached the toll booth.