Dalton actually preened a little, puffing up like he'd just been told his kid made honor roll.
"Well, we do pride ourselves on attention to detail. I've handled prenuptial agreements for some of the most prominent executives in the city, and I believe in complete transparency as the foundation of any solid marital contract."
"Transparency," Gina repeated, nodding thoughtfully. "Yes, that's so important, which is exactly why we've prepared Mr. Hail's disclosure with the same level of detail."
She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a binder.
Not a slim portfolio like Cassandra's.
An actual thick binder, the kind you'd use for a doctoral thesis or a comprehensive business plan.
She set it on the table between us, and I swear to God, it made an audible thud that seemed to echo in the suddenly very quiet conference room.
"Here are Mr. Hail's financials," Gina said pleasantly, sliding the binder across the polished wood toward Dalton and Cassandra. "As you'll see, we've been quite thorough."
I watched Dalton's face as he opened the binder, and it was absolutely worth the price of admission to this whole circus.
His expression went from smugly confident to confused to completely frozen in the span of about four seconds, which might be a record for emotional whiplash in legal proceedings.
His eyes scanned the first page, then widened, then scanned again like he thought he might have misread something.
The color drained from his face in a way that would have been concerning if it wasn't so entertaining.
Cassandra leaned over to look, her perfectly manicured hand reaching out to turn the page, and I got to watch in real time as her brain tried to process what she was seeing.
Her mouth opened slightly.
Then closed.
Then opened again like a fish that had suddenly found itself on dry land and wasn't quite sure how that had happened.
The confident boardroom executive expression she'd been wearing like armor just crumbled.
"Marcus," she said, and her voice came out weird, strangled, like she was trying to speak while someone was stepping on her throat. "You're worth eight figures."
I took a sip of the water that someone had helpfully placed at each seat, probably imported from some Norwegian glacier or filtered through diamonds or something equally ridiculous, and smiled.
"Technically nine if you count the royalties," I said casually, like we were discussing the weather or sports scores. "They've been performing really well lately. The Q3 numbers just came in, and they were pretty solid."
Dalton was flipping through pages now, his silver hair practically standing on end as he encountered document after document.
Bank statements.
Investment portfolios.
Property deeds I'd forgotten I owned.
The original sale agreement for my software company.
Royalty statements.
Tax returns that would make most people's eyes water.
Each page was meticulously documented, verified, notarized, and completely legitimate.
Gina didn't mess around when it came to paperwork.
"This is... this is quite extensive," Dalton stammered.
Watching a lawyer who probably charged $800 an hour struggle to form coherent sentences was honestly therapeutic.
"Mr. Hail, your financial position is significantly more robust than we were led to believe."
"Nobody led you to believe anything," I pointed out reasonably. "You just assumed. There's a difference."
Cassandra was still staring at the binder like it was written in ancient hieroglyphics and she was trying to decode some message from a lost civilization.
Her face had gone through several color changes, from her normal healthy glow to pale to slightly flushed to a shade that I can only describe as, Oh crap, I've made a terrible mistake.
Her mascara, which had probably been applied with the precision of a surgeon that morning, was starting to smudge slightly at the corners where I'm pretty sure she was fighting back tears.
Not sad tears.
Angry, frustrated, embarrassed tears.
The kind you get when you realize you've completely misjudged a situation and there's an audience watching.
"You deceived me," she said finally, and there was an edge to her voice that could have cut glass. "You've been lying this whole time about who you are, what you have. You let me think..."
"I let you think what you wanted to think," I interrupted gently but firmly. "I never lied to you, Cass. Not once. You asked me what I did for a living. I told you. Software consultant. True. You asked if I own my condo. I said yes. Also true. You never asked if I had other assets or investments or income streams. You just assumed that what you saw was all there was."
Gina jumped in, her voice professional and crisp.
"Mr. Hail has been completely forthcoming when asked direct questions. He simply chose not to volunteer information that wasn't requested. There's no legal or ethical violation there. In fact, I'd argue it shows remarkable restraint in an era where everyone feels compelled to broadcast their entire financial situation on social media."
Dalton was regrouping now, his lawyer brain kicking back into gear despite the shock.
"We may need a moment to review these documents more thoroughly," he said, trying to salvage some professional dignity. "This changes the parameters of the prenuptial negotiation significantly."
"Take all the time you need," I said generously, standing up and buttoning my jacket.
Not a fancy jacket.
Just my regular one from a department store that had a sale, which now felt like an extra layer of irony.
"We're not going anywhere. Well, actually, we're going to grab lunch, but we'll be back in an hour. There's a great taco place around the corner that does amazing carnitas. Gina, you hungry?"
"Starving," Gina said, gathering up her things with the satisfaction of someone who'd just won the opening round of a championship match.
I looked at Cassandra, who was still frozen in her chair, staring at the financial documents like they might spontaneously combust if she looked hard enough.
"Oh, and Cass," I said, pausing at the door. "Remember what you said at dinner about not risking your future on me?"
I smiled, keeping my tone light and friendly.
"Yeah. I feel the same way. See you in an hour."
We walked out of that conference room into the marble lobby.
The moment the elevator doors closed, Gina burst out laughing.
Deep, genuine belly laughs that had her leaning against the elevator wall for support.
"Did you see her face?" she gasped between laughs. "Did you see Dalton's face? I thought he was going to have a cardiac event right there in his own conference room."
I grinned.
"Worth every penny of your hourly rate."
"Honey," she said, wiping tears from her eyes, "this one's on the house. That was pure entertainment."
That night, my phone started blowing up around 8:00 p.m., which was honestly later than I'd expected.
I figured Cassandra would start the text assault the moment she got back to her penthouse, probably around 6:30.
But apparently it took her a solid 90 minutes to work herself up into the kind of rage that demanded immediate digital confrontation.
I was sitting on my couch in sweatpants and an old college T-shirt that had more holes than Swiss cheese, eating leftover Chinese food straight from the container like a functional adult, when my phone started vibrating so aggressively it nearly fell off the coffee table.
The first text simply said:
CALL ME NOW.
All caps on that NOW.