Chapter 6 - Victoria’s Version
Victoria wanted to meet me before I filed for divorce.
I refused three times.
Then, four months after the hospital, I agreed.
Neutral office.
Attorneys nearby.
No recording tricks.
No theatrics.
She looked different.
Thinner.
No pink satin.
No pearls.
Just a navy dress and the face of someone who had spent months explaining herself to professionals who did not love her enough to accept vague answers.
“Jonathan.”
“Victoria.”
She started crying almost immediately.
I waited.
“I never wanted you dead.”
I looked at her.
“You told Raymond I was almost gone.”
“I thought you were.”
“Before I was hospitalized?”
Her mouth closed.
“That was about your health.”
“What health information did you have that I didn’t?”
“You were getting worse.”
“So you scheduled a transaction?”
“I was scared.”
“You arranged to get paid.”
“That was Raymond’s idea.”
Raymond disputed that.
Victoria knew I knew.
She looked down.
Then I asked the question that mattered more.
“What was in the drinks?”
“I don’t know.”
“Victoria.”
“I gave you supplements.”
“Prescription medication was found in my system.”
“I never tried to kill you.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Her eyes filled.
Finally:
“I wanted you to sleep.”
The room became completely quiet.
“What did you give me?”
She hesitated.
“My mother had something she used occasionally. I thought it was basically a sedative.”
“You thought.”
“I was desperate.”
“For what?”
“You wouldn’t slow down.”
“You were planning to use my incapacity.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head violently.
“I was trying to get things organized because if you died, I would be locked out of everything.”
“You would have been financially secure.”
“That is not the same as control.”
There it was.
The closest thing to truth she had given me.
“Control.”
She closed her eyes.
“I spent eleven years living in a life where every major thing still belonged to your companies, your trusts, your lawyers.”
“You knew that when we married.”
“I thought eventually you would trust me.”
“I did trust you.”
“No. You loved me. That’s different.”
That sentence hurt because it contained a piece of truth.
I did separate business control.
Not because I suspected Victoria.
Because structures existed before her.
But somewhere along the way, she converted that boundary into humiliation.
Then instead of talking to me, she planned around me.
“I wanted enough authority that nobody could erase me if something happened to you,” she said.
“So you created documents?”
“I did not forge your signature.”
“Did you attach the signature page?”
Silence.
I leaned forward.
“Victoria.”
She began crying again.
“I used the page you signed because I believed you would have agreed if you understood.”
There it was.
Not legal phrasing.
Not full confession.
Enough.
“You decided my consent for me.”
“I was your wife.”
“That does not make my signature yours.”
She looked at the table.
Then I asked about the medication again.
She whispered, “I gave it to you a few times.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you know it could be dangerous?”
“No.”
“Did you tell my doctors?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She could not answer.
Because whatever she believed initially, once I became severely ill, admitting what she had done would expose everything.
So she stayed silent.
And while I lay in a hospital bed, she began preparing for the financial future she expected after my death.
Victoria reached toward me.
I moved my hand away.
“I love you.”
I believed she believed that.
But love without respect for consent becomes possession.
And possession was what our marriage had become.
I stood.
“We’re done.”
She closed her eyes.
May you like
I left.
I did not look back.
