Chapter 9 - Julian Asked for Five Minutes
A year after the wedding, Julian requested five minutes.
No reconciliation.
No legal request.
Just five minutes.
Rebecca asked what I wanted.
I said no.
A month later, he asked again.
No.
Six months later, after sentencing, he sent one final request.
This time I agreed.
Public mediation room.
Rebecca present.
Julian entered thinner.
Older.
No expensive watch.
No Sterling confidence.
He sat across from me.
“Thank you.”
“You have five minutes.”
He nodded.
“I rehearsed this.”
“Probably shouldn’t.”
A sad smile.
“You’re right.”
He looked at my face.
The bruise was long gone.
“I think about breakfast every day.”
“I don’t.”
That surprised him.
It surprised me too.
“I thought that would be the thing I remembered forever.”
“What do you remember?”
“The moment afterward.”
“When you flipped the table?”
“Yes.”
He almost smiled.
“Mom talked about that table for months.”
“Of course she did.”
“She said it was eighteenth-century French.”
“Was it?”
“No. Reproduction.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Julian did too.
For one dangerous second, we sounded like the couple we once were.
Then silence returned.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know.”
“No. I mean—”
“Don’t improve it.”
He stopped.
“Okay.”
“You hit me.”
“Yes.”
“You forged my signature.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Madeline existed.”
“Yes.”
“You knew your parents were using me financially.”
“Yes.”
Each answer cost him something.
Good.
“Did you love me?”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“I believe you.”
He looked shocked.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Relief crossed his face.
I removed it immediately.
“That’s what makes what you did worse.”
He looked down.
“I know.”
“Love wasn’t the issue.”
“What was?”
“You thought loving me gave you permission to decide what I should sacrifice.”
He closed his eyes.
“My family…”
“No.”
He looked up.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t hide inside them.”
Silence.
“Your mother didn’t slap me.”
He swallowed.
“You did.”
“Yes.”
“Arthur didn’t forge my signature.”
“I did.”
“Beatrice influenced you. Your family pressured you. They benefited.”
I leaned forward.
“But you chose.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
There.
That was what I wanted.
Not punishment.
Not begging.
Ownership.
“I chose.”
I stood.
“Five minutes.”
“Claire.”
I paused.
“I hope someday you become someone who would walk out of that breakfast room with me.”
His face broke.
“So do I.”
I left.
Outside, Rebecca waited.
“How was it?”
“Useful.”
“Closure?”
“I don’t think closure is a door.”
“What is it?”
“Maybe just realizing you don’t need to keep checking whether the door is open.”
Rebecca smiled.
“You should charge by the hour.”
“I already do.”
May you like
We went for coffee.
I never met Julian again.
