That word, disclosure, hung in the air between us like a smoke alarm that had just started beeping.
I watched Cassandra's face carefully, saw the tiniest flicker of something that might have been concern or maybe just curiosity.
She thought she knew everything about my financial situation because I'd been so carefully average in her presence, so consistently unimpressive in my displays of wealth.
The idea that there might be something to disclose beyond "software consultant, makes decent salary" probably seemed absurd to her.
"Of course," she said smoothly, already pulling out her phone, probably to text Al Dalton about this unexpected development. "Transparency is important, although I imagine your disclosure will be pretty straightforward. Salary, savings, maybe a 401(k). Dalton can have his paralegal whip up the standard forms."
"Probably," I agreed, not correcting her adorable misconceptions. "Gina said she'd have everything ready by next week. She's very efficient. I think you'll like her, actually. She's got that same kind of direct, no-nonsense energy you have. Very professional. Very sharp."
Cassandra stayed for another 40 minutes, during which she talked about her company's stock performance, an upcoming board meeting, and some corporate drama involving a VP who'd made the mistake of questioning her strategy in front of investors.
I made the appropriate listening noises, asked the right questions, played the supportive partner role perfectly.
The whole time, though, I was mentally counting down the hours until my meeting with Gina tomorrow morning, where we were going to craft a prenup that would make Cassandra's fancy lawyer earn whatever astronomical hourly rate he was charging.
After she left, another cheek kiss, another cloud of expensive perfume, another reminder that she had an early meeting tomorrow so she couldn't stay over, I immediately texted Gina.
She has no idea. This is going to be spectacular.
Her response was almost instantaneous.
Already drafting. Bringing my A-game. We're adding full financial disclosure requirements, asset verification protocols, and a few fun clauses about good-faith negotiations. If Madame CEO wants to play lawyer ball, we're bringing the entire legal league. Also, I'm putting in a clause about honesty in relationships just for the irony.
I grinned at my phone like an idiot.
Make it sparkle, I typed back.
Oh, honey, she replied. I'm about to make it shine like a disco ball at a billionaire's wedding. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we're going to create a legal document so beautiful it should be in a museum. Also, bring good coffee. The stuff in my office tastes like filtered sadness.
I spent the rest of the evening in a genuinely good mood, ordering pizza from my regular place, the one with the slightly greasy boxes and the guy at the counter who always gave me extra garlic knots, and watching basketball highlights while my cat, Chairman Meow, yes, I named my cat Chairman Meow, silently judged me from his perch on the bookshelf.
Cassandra thought she was playing chess.
Making strategic moves.
Protecting her assets like a good CEO.
What she didn't realize was that she'd just walked into a game where she didn't even know all the pieces on the board.
Tomorrow morning, Gina and I were going to change that.
We were going to put all the pieces in plain view, spread them out on the table, and watch what happened when Cassandra realized that her slightly dorky, financially unremarkable fiancée was actually playing a completely different game than she thought.
I couldn't wait.
The law office was located in one of those downtown buildings that screamed, We charge by the minute and our coffee is imported.
All glass and chrome and architectural angles that looked like someone had given M.C. Escher a blank check and told him to go crazy.
The lobby had that polished marble floor that made your footsteps echo importantly, like every step you took was being documented for posterity or at least for someone's Instagram story about power moves and professional success.
The whole place smelled like expensive wood polish, fresh leather, and the kind of quiet money that doesn't need to announce itself because everyone already knows it's there.
Gina had suggested we meet at Dalton's office as a courtesy, which I thought was hilarious because there was nothing courteous about what we were about to do.
It was like a boxer suggesting you choose which ring you want to get knocked out in.
Technically polite.
Ultimately irrelevant.
She'd shown up at my place that morning in a sharp black suit that meant business, carrying a leather briefcase that looked like it could survive a nuclear apocalypse and still have room for highlighters.
She'd been grinning like someone who'd just been told Christmas was coming early this year.
"Ready to ruin someone's whole narrative?" she'd asked cheerfully while I locked my apartment door.
"Born ready," I'd replied.
And I meant it.
We arrived exactly on time.
Gina was big on punctuality as a power move. Said it showed you respected everyone's time while also establishing that you were organized and professional.
We were ushered into a conference room that looked like it had been designed specifically to intimidate people into settling.
The table was this massive slab of dark wood that probably cost more than a decent used car, surrounded by leather chairs that made important creaking noises when you sat in them.
One entire wall was floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city that basically screamed, Look how successful everyone in this room is.
Cassandra was already there.
Of course.
Because she'd probably arrived 15 minutes early to establish territorial dominance.
She was wearing a white power suit that was so crisp and bright it could probably be seen from space, paired with killer heels that added three inches to her height and about 50 points to her intimidation factor.
Her hair was pulled back in a style that said, I woke up like this, but actually meant, I woke up two hours early to look like this.
Her makeup was flawless in that way that takes significant time and skill to achieve while appearing natural.
She looked like she'd stepped out of a Fortune 500 cover shoot, which was probably the exact vibe she was going for.
Her lawyer, Mr. Dalton, sat beside her, looking equally polished and approximately three times as smug.
He was one of those silver-haired attorney types who probably played golf with judges on weekends and owned multiple vacation homes that he referred to as "the place in Aspen" or "the Cape house," like everyone just automatically knew which cape he meant.
His suit probably cost what I used to make in a month back in my actual struggling-software-consultant days.
He wore a watch that looked like it could fund a small nation's GDP.
He had that expression expensive lawyers get when they think they've already won, a sort of benevolent condescension, like a cat that's already caught the mouse and is just playing with it for entertainment value.
"Marcus," Cassandra said warmly, standing to kiss my cheek in that performance of affection that I'd grown accustomed to. "Thank you for being so reasonable about all this. Mr. Dalton has prepared everything beautifully."
"I'm sure he has," I said pleasantly, taking a seat across from them.
Gina settled in beside me with the kind of calm confidence that made me want to high-five her.
She set her briefcase on the table with a satisfying thud that said, We're here and we mean business.
Dalton cleared his throat importantly, the way people do when they're about to say something they think is significant.
"Shall we begin with Ms. Reeves's financial disclosure? I think you'll find everything is quite in order."
He slid a leather portfolio across the table toward us like he was presenting evidence at trial.
"My client has been remarkably transparent about her assets."
Gina opened the portfolio with the casual interest of someone browsing a restaurant menu, flipping through pages while I pretended to be fascinated by the view outside.
The disclosure was thorough.
I'll give them that.
Cassandra's company shares, current valuation, her penthouse lease details, the loan on her Tesla, her investment accounts, her savings, everything laid out in neat columns with official letterheads and verification stamps.
It was the financial equivalent of peacock feathers, all spread out for maximum impressive display.
"Very comprehensive," Gina said approvingly, closing the portfolio. "My client appreciates the thoroughness. Mr. Dalton, you have an excellent reputation, and this work reflects that."