Chapter 4 - Paper Ghosts
The formal notice arrived on a rain-slicked Thursday morning via a courier service. A thick manila packet stamped with the seal of Vance, Sterling & Croft—except this wasn't corporate business. It was from a boutique family law practice in Aspen, representing Rebecca Brooks.
*Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.*
Seeing our names separated by the legal jargon—*Petitioner* and *Respondent*—felt like a physical blow to the chest. The terms were staggering in their simplicity. Rebecca was not asking for spousal support. She was not demanding equity in Sterling & Vance. She was not asking for the house in Denver or my investment portfolios.
She wanted the 1974 vintage Airstream trailer we had bought during our second year of marriage, her grandmother’s heirlooms, and her maiden name restored. She was walking away from millions of dollars just to ensure that no financial thread remained tethered to me.
"She doesn't want your money, Gabriel," my personal attorney, David Cole, explained over speakerphone. "In twenty years of family law, I’ve never seen a spouse walk away from this much legitimate marital property without a fight. She’s giving you a clean break. Sign the waivers, let the ninety-day statutory waiting period run, and it’s over."
"I’m not signing," I said.
"Listen to reason. You have no legal defense here. Colorado is a no-fault state. If she wants out, she gets out. Signing now protects your remaining assets."
"I don't care about the assets!" I shouted into the empty kitchen, my voice cracking with an ugly, jagged intensity. "I don't want a clean break! I want to look her in the eye and tell her..."
"Tell her what?" David asked bluntly. "That you’re sorry? Gabriel, wealthy men say they're sorry with checks and apologies every day. She doesn't want the check, and she doesn't believe the apology. If you contest this, all you do is drag her through depositions and prolong her agony. Is that how you love her?"
His words knocked the breath from my lungs.
After hanging up, I spread the documents across the granite island. Tucked beneath the financial disclosures was a minor property receipt from a private storage facility in Salida—a small mountain town nestled in the Arkansas River Valley, three hours southwest of Denver. It was a single line item: a prepaid six-month lease on a commercial workshop, registered under the name *Brooks Studio & Design*.
Rebecca had spent three years working as an uncredited project manager for high-end landscape architects in Denver, putting her own dreams of running a native botanical design studio on hold so I could work ninety-hour weeks without domestic disruptions.
May you like
She hadn't fled to Aspen or hidden in Europe. She had gone to the high desert valley we had driven through once during our honeymoon, when she had pointed out the dusty cottonwoods and whispered that it looked like a place where a person could finally learn how to breathe again.
***
