Page 61 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“And he said you gave it to your lawyer.”

“Right, but . . .”

“Oh, Pasha, I hate this so much. A prenup is like—”

“Tatyana—”

“It’s like planning for a divorce before you’re even married!”

“I made a few minor changes, but I’m going to sign it,dushen’kaya.” He’d begun to use the occasional Russian term of endearment.

“You are? But what about your lawyer?”

He had called Brad Sarkisian back and told him what he was going to do, and Brad had let him know in no uncertain terms that he was out of his mind. “Do you realize how much you could get out of this deal?” he’d said.

“I know,” Paul had said. “But I’m not planning to divorce her.”

“That’s what everyone says, Paul. Until they do, and they always live to regret it.” Brad had about a hundred changes—redlines, he called them—he wanted to make.

Now Paul said to Tatyana, “My lawyer thinks I’m crazy. But I’m going to sign it pretty much as is.”

“Youare?”

“I want you to know I’m not interested in your money, okay? I want you to know that.”

She threw her arms around him and hugged him for a long time. He could feel her tears on his neck. “I was dreading your reaction!” she said. “I was so depressed—I thought this would break us apart.”

While they embraced, he said, “No, of course not. But I think it’s time to look for another apartment. With room for both of us. Deal?”

39

The first month working for Arkady Galkin’s firm wasn’t much different from his job at Aquinnah. He worked long hours, which Tatyana didn’t love, but now she couldn’t complain, since it was her father’s firm.

On his way to work one day, his phone rang, and he was surprised to see it was Bernie Kovan calling.

“How goes it, Brightman?”

“Going well, thanks.”

“Would you have time for a drink after work?”

“Uh, sure. That would be great. Tomorrow?”

“Sooner the better.”

What did Bernie want? Maybe to try to hire him back? “Okay, excellent. O’Malley’s?”

“Where else?” Bernie said. “I have a friend I want you to meet.”

He was curious as to why Bernie wanted a drink and who the friend was—he knew it couldn’t be just a social meetup—but work got so busy that he filed it away and forgot.

Shortly before noon, Mr. Frost knocked on the doorjamb of his office. “Oh, Paul,” he said. “Load up on StratforTech. Up to fifty million dollars’ worth.”

“Why’s that?”

“StratforTech,” Mr. Frost repeated. “You know StratforTech?”

“Sure.” StratforTech was a start-up cybersecurity software company. “But what’s the reason, what’s the occasion?”

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