Before I married Brian, my consulting practice was already profitable.
When he complained about my schedule, I shifted much of my work from home.
Brian assumed that meant I had stopped working.
In reality, I was consulting for restaurant groups.
Designing menus.
Negotiating purchasing agreements.
Developing culinary concepts for hotel companies.
And earning royalties from kitchen products designed with my father’s forge.
Much of that income had quietly supported The Hearth.
When Brian’s restaurant was drowning in debt, I used my company’s earnings to keep it afloat.
I negotiated extended credit with vendors.
Covered shortages.
Restructured supply agreements.
Injected money when necessary.
Brian never asked where it came from.
He simply assumed his restaurant had recovered because he was brilliant.
Beatrice went pale.
“You’re lying.”
Cooper opened the binder.
Contracts.
Bank transfers.
Consulting agreements.
All documented.
“Samantha does not own Brian’s restaurant building,” he explained, “but her business was one of its primary financial supports for years.”
At that moment, Brian rushed into the lobby.
His tie hung loose.
His hair was disheveled.
“Samantha!”
He stopped when he saw the documents.
“Tell me this isn’t true.”
“It’s true.”
His face fell.
“How much money were you making?”
I almost laughed.
“I told you many times.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did. You called it my ‘little pennies’ and said you didn’t have time to hear about it.”
For once, Brian had nothing to say.
Then fear replaced his pride.
“We can fix this.”
“No.”
“We could remarry.”
I stared at him.
“You think I divorced you to frighten you?”
He stepped closer.
“We could run everything together again.”
“I left because I no longer wanted a life with you.”
Beatrice reached toward me.
“We can start fresh.”
I stepped back.
“You still don’t understand.”
