He glances at the cards. “I’ve just relocated to Chicago,” he says. “So I don’t know them personally. But I know them, if you know what I mean. I know thousands of them. And I’m sure any of them could adequately ‘manage’ your money. But that’s not what you want.”
“It’s not?”
“No, you want to grow it. You don’t want to fly first-class. You want to own your own jet.”
I sit back in my chair, cross my leg. Definitely a more aggressive approach. Those other men, with their smooth small talk, their bullshit about forging relationships and getting to know the individual needs and wants of each investor, risk-mitigation, and asset-preservation strategies. Trying to make me feel secure and safe. This one, he’s saying, buckle up and prepare for blastoff.
“You said you’re about to come into some money,” he says. “An inheritance? Not a death in the family, I hope?”
“No. My husband Simon’s money, actually.”
“Ah, Mr. Lanier.”
“Dobias,” I say. “Simon Dobias. I kept my maiden name.”
“Very good.”
“But I’ll be making the decisions about money,” I say. “In ten weeks, at least, I will. I want to be ready when that happens.”
He pauses on that. He doesn’t understand. “What happens in ten weeks?”
“We celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. November the third. Then I get the money.”
“Ah,” he says. “Sounds like there’s a trust involved.”
Very good, Christian Newsome. Indeed, there is.
“Simon’s father left money in a trust for him, yes,” I say. “You’ve dealt with trusts before?”
He waves a hand. “All the time. You’d be amazed at what people do with their money. That’s their business, not mine.”
“Right now, the money is held in Simon’s name only. According to the trust, once we’re married for ten years, it becomes joint property.”
“Those were his father’s terms? You had to be married for ten years before you could access the money?”
“Before I could access it . . . or before Simon could even spend it on me.”
Christian sits back in his chair. “Really.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, an edge to my voice. “There’s a trustee who has to approve every expenditure from the trust. Simon could buy a car, but it has to be in the trust’s name only, meaning Simon’s name only. He could buy a second house in Florida or something, but in the trust’s name only—Simon’s name only. Simon tried to buy me a diamond necklace for our fifth anniversary and the trustee said no, not with trust money, he couldn’t.”
“That is restrictive.”
I smile. “Simon’s father didn’t trust me.”
That seems to spark Christian’s interest, his eyes lighting up. Am I a naughty girl?
I don’t know, am I?
“He figured that if I really loved Simon, I wouldn’t mind waiting ten years for the money. And if I was in it for the money, as he suspected, I wouldn’t be willing to wait ten years.”
He doesn’t answer, but he sees the logic. And he’s thinking there must be a healthy amount of money in that trust. But he hasn’t asked. Not yet. His website, the small print, says that the minimum investment for his services is ten million dollars. On the phone, the receptionist said the same thing but added that Christian was sometimes willing to make exceptions. I told her that ten million wouldn’t be a problem.
“And you haven’t grown on Simon’s father over the years?” he asks me, smiling.
“Oh, Simon’s father passed away before we were even married.”
“Ah, sorry to hear that. And now you’ve been married ten years,” he says. “Or you will be, come November third.”
“Come November third,” I say, “I can spend that money however I want, whenever I want, on whatever I want. And I want to get it as far away from that stupid bank and that condescending trustee with his bullshit about asset protection and conservative—”
I catch myself getting carried away.
“Sorry,” I say. “I might be . . . a little bitter.”
“I don’t blame you,” he says. “You’ve been a second-class citizen in your own marriage.”
I nod. “Not that Simon wants it that way. He doesn’t have a choice. He can’t change the terms of the trust. But yeah, a second-class citizen, that’s a really good way of putting it.”