“Maggie, for heaven’s sake. I’m thirty-eight, not ten,” Jack says, shaking his head in mock embarrassment. “Obviously, Henry and Maggie have been with the family for a very long time, Claire.”
“We both started with the Comptons right out of law school,” Henry says. “We’ve watched the boys grow up. We’re normally based in Palo Alto, but Brice flew us in last night.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Maggie says. She has a kind smile.
“I’m very pleased to meet you. Sorry we’ve taken so long to show up. Thanks for waiting.”
I’m getting intimidated in the face of this continued opulence and generosity. Generational pearls and family lawyers and Faustian bargains and private Italian villas packed with priceless art—what’s next? A royal entourage? Will Jack’s mother sit me down and teach me the finer points of the princess wave?
“Not a problem at all,” Henry says, waving a hand around the room. “We’ve had plenty to entertain us. Now, Claire, I’m sure Jack explained to you about the structure of your prenuptial agreement? Oh, sit, sit.” He gestures to the empty chairs opposite. We settle in, the four of us as cozy as can be. I need to get used to these intimate enclaves, the odd sense of intrusion into our private life from the ancillary members of the Compton clan. First Henna and Fatima, now Maggie and Henry.
“We haven’t discussed it in detail, no. But I’m not in this for the money, so I’m not concerned. I’m sure whatever you’ve drafted will be fine.”
Maggie gives me a sharp glance. “If we handed you paperwork right now that explicitly stated you would forgo any settlements upon the marriage’s demise, you’d sign with no qualms?”
“Of course. Hand me a pen. All I want is Jack.”
And a dream dress, a swank destination wedding, and a castle on an island, but who’s counting?
Jack beams at me, and the lawyers share a private look. Henry opens a folder and pulls out a pale blue–backed legal document.
“Happily, Claire, we do things a little differently here. We have no intention of asking you to forgo anything should your marriage to Jackson end in divorce, or death. A settlement of 30 percent of Jack’s estate, including all fixed assets, confers to you regardless, right now.”
I can’t help sputtering. “Thirty percent? What? That’s...that’s too much.”
“It’s yours. The accounts are in your name, and your name only. As soon as you’ve legally changed your name to Claire Compton, that is. We’ve done all the necessary paperwork for the religious ceremony to be legal in the eyes of the Italian government, and as such, the Americans as well. You’ll be issued a marriage certificate here after the ceremony, and as soon as you’re back on US soil from your honeymoon, you will have a new social security card so you can get your new driver’s license, and then you’ll head to the bank. All will be waiting for you.”
This is more than a shock. Thirty percent of his estate? Regardless?
“That seems...overly generous.”
“We take care of our own,” Maggie says, teeth flashing again. Her grin is now predatory.
“You’re going to be my wife,” Jack says, taking my hand. “The mother of my children. A full-fledged member of this family. That means you’ll have your own money, to do with what you will. We won’t be getting divorced, though, will we, Claire?”
“Of course not,” I reply, touching the warm pearls around my neck. “I wouldn’t bother marrying you in the first place if I had any intention of leaving. That would be counterproductive.”
We all laugh, and Maggie slides over the papers. “Just for the record, Claire, the money and assets will revert back to Jackson’s estate if you pass away before an heir comes along.” They pause, as if to let this morbid idea sink in a bit.
“Naturally. I wouldn’t need it if I were dead. I understand.”
Cross my heart and hope to die.
And there it is again, that overwhelming curiosity—did Jack’s dead wife go through all of this? Or is this new, something they’ve cooked up just for me?
Maggie gives me another sweetly predatory smile, like an adorable but feral barn cat.
“Excellent. What you’re signing here, Claire, in addition to the prenuptial agreement, is basically a nondisclosure agreement. Everything we’ve discussed today must stay between us. If you tell anyone outside of the people in this room anything about the Comptons’ financial arrangements with you, you will forfeit it all. Do you understand?”
Interesting. “I do.”
Jack squeezes my knee, recognizing the echo of the words to come.
“There’s more. You are precluded from discussing any personal information you might learn about the family through your marriage and subsequent time spent with them, their history as a family, anything to do with the Villa and all their other properties. If you do, you will forfeit your 30 percent, and there will be other legal ramifications. Is that clear as well?”
“Crystal. I would never divulge family secrets. I take that vow very seriously.”
“Read this over, then,” Maggie says, relaxing into the chair, “and here’s a pen.”
I read through the paper in front of me. The language is quite clear, but I read it carefully. Halfway down the page is the stipulation that everything depends on me legally changing my name to Compton and agreeing to raise my children under the Compton surname. I have no choice there.
And if I disclose anything personal about the family without express approval, the family can come after me legally. It should probably strike me as strange, and looking back, I can see that of course this was completely out of the ordinary. But in the moment, with Jack smiling at me and the lawyers waiting expectantly, their requests for secrecy and silence seem to be the most perfectly reasonable request I’ve ever heard. This is a family everyone wants a piece of. They are internationally known, famous, wealthy, targeted, and as such, understandably private.
An all or nothing setup. I understand it just fine. I will erase Claire Hunter completely, morph into Claire Compton, Mrs. Jackson Compton, and forevermore leave that damaged, empty part of myself behind that attaches to my maiden name.
And I want that. I want it so much. It’s not the money, though. I swear it. I want Jack. I want his oblivion.
Without another thought or glance, I sign my name above the line where Claire Elizabeth Hunter is printed, and date it.
Soon enough, everything I sign will say Claire Compton. It is astounding to think of. I always thought when and if I got married, I’d keep my maiden name. I intended to be Claire Hunter forever. Call it karmic debt, a nod to my dead father permanently etched on me, legally and ancestrally.