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It’s cramped and aggressively beige, with fake leather chairs, laminate floors, and framed photos of gavels and courthouse steps on the walls, the kind that look like they came free with the frames. A plastic fern sits in the corner, too shiny to be convincing. Behind his desk, a gold nameplate reads VINCE VINEGAR, ESQ., though the gold is definitely not gold.
Vince himself looks like he wandered out of a low-budget legal drama. His teeth are a little too white and square, his suit is a little too shiny for a Tuesday morning, and his gelled hair looks strong enough to survive a hurricane.
He smiles at me like we’re old friends as he flips through the prenup.
“This shouldn’t be a problem,” he says brightly.
“Shouldn’t?”
“No problem. Straightforward.” He taps the papers with one finger. “We’ll go for the lot.”
I pause. “I’m not after the lot.”
“You should be.”
“Vince, my husband would never let me take the lot. He wouldn’t even let me have a quarter. He’s not…” I hesitate. “I think he would fight giving me anything.”
“Listen, Caroline, I think I know what I’m doing here. Okay?” He flashes that blinding smile again.
“It’s Carmen,” I say quietly.
He’s already looking back at the papers.
“You probably have more leverage than you think.” He nods at me like I’m supposed to understand.
I just blink at him.
“The supplement business is a dirty business,” he says, like it’s a fact. “Manufacturing issues, ingredient problems, fake reviews, doctors on payroll.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Heard anything like that?”
I stare at him. “…I wouldn’t know.”
“Come on. You were married to him.”
“Maverick didn’t talk to me about business. Ever.”
He didn’t really talk to me at all in the last few years.
“Right, but you must have heard things. Seen things.”
My fingers tighten around the strap of my purse. “Are you asking me if I have something to blackmail him with?”
Vince laughs, too loudly. “Blackmail? No one said blackmail.”
“It sounds like blackmail.”
“I’m talking about leverage. Something to encourage him to be reasonable.”
“I don’t have leverage.”
His mouth pulls into a tight line.
“Let’s just ask for a hundred million and see how we go.”
He says it casually, like he plucked that number from thin air.
“I’m not sure…I don’t need that much. I just want to open a dog shelter—”
“Your husband is worth north of three billion. We’re not asking for much, trust me.”
