“You printed your whole portfolio?”
“Essentially.”
Rachel’s assistant brought water.
We sat.
Vanessa’s disclosure came first.
Straightforward.
Her interest in Aveline.
Estimated current value of vested shares.
Options.
Brokerage account.
Retirement plans.
A condo she rented out.
The house she had owned before we moved in together.
Cash.
A small inherited trust.
Liabilities.
Net personal assets:
approximately $12.4 million.
I had known roughly that already.
Not exact numbers.
Close.
When Rachel finished, Simon opened my first folder.
“Mr. Cole’s disclosure is somewhat more extensive.”
Vanessa smiled.
“I’m sure.”
Simon did not.
He slid the first schedule across.
Vanessa looked down.
At first, nothing happened.
Then her forehead creased.
She read the first line again.
Hawthorne Capital Partners.
Ownership:
68%.
Estimated net equity attributable to Nathan Cole:
$46.8 million.
Vanessa’s smile disappeared.
She looked at me.
Then back at the page.
“What is Hawthorne?”
“My firm.”
“You said you worked for an investment company.”
“I said I worked in investments.”
She stared.
Rachel reached for the schedule.
Simon opened the second folder.
Direct investment holdings.
Crestline Logistics Group.
Minority stake.
Estimated value:
$31.2 million.
Two data-center partnerships:
$26.7 million.
Commercial real-estate interests:
$22.4 million.
Public securities and Treasuries:
$18.9 million.
Private credit portfolio:
$15.3 million.
Cash and short-term equivalents:
$7.8 million.
Then additional holdings.
Smaller businesses.
Investment vehicles.
A warehouse portfolio.
Energy storage.
A medical-equipment distributor.
The numbers continued.
Vanessa stopped reading.
She looked at Simon.
“What is the total?”
Simon turned to the summary page.
“As of the valuation date, approximately two hundred fourteen million dollars net of directly attributable liabilities.”
Nobody spoke.
Vanessa’s face lost color.
I had never seen her completely speechless.
Not once in three years.
Rachel slowly sat back.
She looked at me.
Then Vanessa.
Then the prenup beside her.
Vanessa finally whispered:
“This can’t be right.”
“It is.”
Simon said.
“You’re worth two hundred million dollars?”
“Approximately.”
“Two hundred fourteen.”
Simon corrected automatically.
I looked at him.
“Not helping.”
“Sorry.”
Vanessa stared at me.
“You drive a twelve-year-old Lexus.”
“Nine.”
“That is not the point.”
“I know.”