The divorce was quieter than the confrontation on the jet.
By then, Grant had no title to hide behind and no corporate account to finance his performance.
He fought over language, appearances, and blame, but the evidence controlled the outcome.
On the day the final agreement was signed, I returned to Teterboro.
The Gulfstream waited beneath a clear sky.
The orchids were gone.
The stained cloth had been replaced.
My cashmere blanket rested folded in its compartment.
Captain Warren met me at the stairs.
“Where to, Ms.
Sterling?” he asked.
It was the first time anyone had used my name without Grant’s attached to it since the divorce became final.
I looked beneath the cockpit window.
VS.
My father had chosen those initials before I married.
At the time, I thought he was being sentimental.
Now I understood.
He had not been marking the plane as a gift.
He had been reminding me who was responsible for it.
“Home,” I said.
I climbed aboard and sat in the cream leather chair Grant had occupied when he toasted his freedom.
The jet rose above New Jersey, banking toward the light.
I did not open champagne.
I opened the new authorization register and signed the final page with my own name.
