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“I’m just glad it’s done.” My voice is toneless. Renee, my ex-wife and my biggest regret, sued me two weeks ago. Gigi introduced us. We were all in Carmel for an annual party one of her friends throws every Fourth of July. I had just finished my MBA at Wharton and was working for a KPMG in Rome. I’d come out for the party because I was turning twenty-five and had somehow managed to let Gigi convince me that I needed to find a wife. This party she said would be crawling with women who would be suitable. Suitable meant she’d be from a wealthy family and a well-trained socialite who never put a foot out of place publicly.
Renee—on paper— was perfect. That she was sexy was icing on the cake.
I learned early on one of the hazards of having a lot of money. Your worst impulses have all the fuel they need to turn into your biggest regret. We were married within weeks of meeting each other. Our alcohol and sex-fueled dash down the altar had lasted a grand total of twenty-two days. Once the booze wore off, the sex got boring. Once that was gone, we realized we didn’t even like each other very much.
When we divorced, everything I’d earned during our marriage was half hers. That was barely anything considering we were officially separated less than thirty days after we found each other.
Our divorce finalized on my twenty-fifth birthday. The same day my inheritance from the Rivers Trust, and what Swish had been setting aside for me for the last ten years, all vested. She’d never known the details of it. There was never any need for her to.
I gave her enough money to get settled in a new place by herself and to give her breathing room until she could find a job.
She found a new husband before she found employment, and I was off the hook for alimony.
Then, a year before my thirtieth birthday, coincidence created
a set of circumstances that set us on a course for a much-less-than-amicable reunion. A job took her and her new husband to Houston. Less than six months later, he’d left her for another woman, and her divorce was being formalized.
The Houston press was in a tizzy about my impending return. Would I be able to navigate the treacherous swamp of Houston’s upper-class society when I spent my formative years in Europe? Did I even still speak English? How had becoming one of the wealthiest men in the country—practically overnight—change me?
It was that last question that got Renee’s attention. Though she’d never married without a prenup again, none of her husbands were green enough to let her walk away with more than enough to satisfy that “the lifestyle to which she was accustomed” clause in their prenups. So, when she heard that I’d gone from successful accountant to the new “Rivers King,” as they called me in the press, she pounced.
She sued me for a share of my inheritance. She argued that it should have been included in our community property because I concealed its existence from her and because it matured while we were still legally married.
I pushed back. She was asking for thirty percent of my estate. I wasn’t willing to give her thirty cents. The day after our first court hearing, she showed up at my house with a bottle of wine and an offer for settling. I slammed the door in her face.
The next morning, she sat down on a local talk show wearing sunglasses and implied that I’d removed her—physically—from my house. The police paid me a visit and set the rumor mill spilling.
My lawyers advised me to settle. Gigi wanted me to fight back. But, I didn’t want a court battle. She just wanted my money. And that is the one thing I have plenty of. It kept the foundation’s and family money out of her reach.
“Don’t let it get you down,” Gigi says. She mistakes my silence for sadness.
“I’m not down. I’m glad she’ s gone,” I say honestly. It’s true. I hope our paths never cross again.
“Most people aren’t so calculating,” she says. “You had one bad experience. You can’t stay single forever because of it.”
“Why not?” I say it like I’m joking, but I’ve actually considered it.
“Don’t say things like that! People will start thinking you’re like that ridiculous George Clooney,” she says.
“He looks like he’s doing all right,” I say frankly.
“Hayes McGregor Rivers,” she says sharply, and I laugh at how riled up this topic always gets her.
“I know I got Renee wrong. But, in my defense, I didn’t think you’d marry her a week after you met. If you let me leave this earth without grandnieces and nephews, I’ll will haunt you forever,” she says.
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. I like having you around,” I retort. She lets out a pained, long-suffering sigh.
“You’re thirty. You need to start thinking about it again. Especially if you’re going to make a successful transition back into Houston’s society.”
I can’t suppress my groan. We’ve been having this argument for the last year.
“Gigi, let me do one thing at a time. The foundation needs my attention right now. The wife hunt can wait.”
“Well, there are lots of eligible girls from very nice families in Houston,” she says.
“Gigi—”
“Oooh, if I’m here more often, I could be your matchmaker,” she says hopefully. I start to quip that she’s done enough by introducing and encouraging my liaison with Renee. But, it goes beyond whatever her hopes are. I have watched one marriage of convenience after another fail and fall apart. It’s the last thing I want. So, I level with her.
