Unfortunately, they ended up sharing an elevator. She stood to one side, staying as far away from the two men as possible.
“There’s nothing wrong with civility, you know,” Gavin said.
“Like standing me up on a special anniversary dinner without calling?” She raised her index finger. “I know. Family emergency, halfway across the country. Because Catherine needed you.”
“I won’t argue with you in an elevator.”
“Too bad. I don’t need Samantha to win this one,” she said sweetly.
Craig coughed discreetly; Gavin shot her a dark glare.
The elevator opened with a soft ping, and she stepped out as quickly as possible and marched straight for the receptionist’s desk.
Amandine didn’t have to say a word. The receptionist recognized them immediately and led them to a conference room in the center of the floor. Leather-bound books crammed built-in bookshelves, and figurines and objets d’art took up space in recessed nooks. Warm and inviting, the room looked like something out of a home decoration magazine rather than a lawyer’s office.
“Glad everyone’s here on time,” Samantha said as she walked inside with an accordion folder and a purse. Almost the same age as Craig, she was a tall woman, almost six feet with her pumps. Short dirty blond hair framed an angular face with wide-set brown eyes and plump lips that seemed more appropriate for a pin-up girl than a lawyer. She wore a slim and well-fitted black skirt suit that showed off toned legs.
The receptionist brought drinks for everyone and left.
Gavin and Craig sat closest to the door, with Samantha and Amandine on the other side. The oak table between them felt like a DMZ.
“Before we start, I want to make it clear I’m interested in reconciliation,” Gavin said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to divorce, especially when we don’t have any hard feelings toward each other.”
Samantha pursed her mouth and studied her French manicured nails before saying, “You need more than ‘no hard feelings’ for a marriage to work.”
No kidding.
“We made a baby together,” Gavin said. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”
“Does it to you?” Amandine asked.
Before he could respond, Samantha put a hand on Amandine’s wrist and said, “What would my client get out of agreeing to a reconciliation?”
“Avoiding personal defeat.” Gavin leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers. “A divorce is a failure.”
Amandine bit her lower lip. The muscles around her neck tightened. Still no mention of love. Just not having any hard feelings and avoiding defeat. Failure.
But then success—at any cost—was the main driver for Gavin. He’d made twenty billion from risky bets, each leveraged at least hundred times. At first Amandine hadn’t understood how he could do that without getting an incurable ulcer. But now she knew; he was convinced that he could never fail, never make a mistake large enough that he couldn’t somehow recoup the loss in another way. The idea that his marriage would end like this was unacceptable to his psyche.
“How long would this attempt at reconciliation last?” Samantha asked.
“A year,” Craig responded.
Amandine’s jaw dropped. “That’s absurd.”
Samantha squeezed Amandine’s wrist.
Gavin smiled. “I deserve at least that much since we’ve been married for three years.”
Amandine pulled away from Samantha’s hold. “Three weeks is plenty. One week per year.”
“Each year is worth at least a month, and there’s the jet.” Gavin leaned forward. “Four months.”
“Three, and you can keep the damn jet. Since I haven’t flown it, you might be able to return it and get your money back.” Amandine gave him a thin smile.
“Don’t be unreasonable, Mrs. Lloyd,” Craig said.
“Don’t call me Mrs. Lloyd, for god’s sake,” Amandine snapped at the lawyer and turned her gaze to Gavin. “If you can’t change my mind after three months, you aren’t going to change it by hanging around a month longer. I’m not some blue chip you can hold onto, hoping I’ll rise in value.”