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Afew days later, Paul got a call at work from one of Galkin’s secretaries, Maddy, asking him to come by the boss’s office at one o’clock. When he arrived, he saw that it wasn’t just Galkin; there was a second man, a tall, barrel-chested, silver-haired man who looked like he’d once played football, a long time ago.

Galkin didn’t introduce the second man. He waited until Paul had sat down in one of the visitor’s chairs in front of his desk, and then he said, abruptly, “Do you know what is wealth?”

This sounded like a trick question in a college philosophy course, so Paul said, with an indulgent smile, “Why don’t you tell me.”

“This word, wealth . You know I am not the native speaker, so I look up English words. I look up wealth . Long time ago, it doesn’t mean ‘money.’ It means, how you say, ‘well-being.’ ‘Happiness.’ But a man’s ultimate wealth is family, no?”

“Wealth is also money,” Paul pointed out.

Galkin shook his head. “Money is moat.” Paul must have looked confused, because Galkin said, “Do you say ‘moat’? Around castle? Money is this moat. To protect yourself and your family from unpredictable and hostile world. Money protects your family, your wealth. You understand me?” He tapped a fist against his heart.

Now Paul understood. Galkin was talking about the prenup.

Then, without further explanation, Arkady introduced the silver-haired ex–football player. “William Dowling,” he said. “My lawyer. Bill, this is Mr. Brightman. My future son-in-law. Pavel. That’s his name in Russian.”

“Pavel,” the lawyer said, with a crusher of a handshake.

“Paul, actually.”

“Paul, then. That’s how I had it.” Dowling lifted a silver metal attaché case and placed it gingerly on the glass desktop and popped it open. He pulled out three sets of documents in blueback folders and handed one to Paul. “This is a standard prenuptial agreement between husband and wife.”

“Should I run this by my lawyer?” Paul asked.

The lawyer replied: “You’re free to choose to have a lawyer.”

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” Paul said. He didn’t have a lawyer, really. He thought of a smart college friend who’d gone to Columbia Law. Brad Sarkisian had represented a mutual friend in a costly divorce. He and Paul weren’t particularly close, but it was the first name he thought of. Paul did a quick search on his phone and found the name of Brad’s law firm. He stepped out of the office and placed a call.

“Bradley Sarkisian’s office, this is Meryl.”

“This is an old friend of Brad’s from college. Paul Brightman. I need to talk to him.”

“Will he know what this is in reference to?”

“Just tell him it’s Paul Brightman and it’s important.”

A few seconds went by, and then Sarkisian came on the line, loud and firm. “Brightman! How the hell are you?”

“Hey, Brad. Thanks for taking my call.”

“Is there something I can help with? Everything okay?”

“Well, it’s good news, really, but I need some advice. I’m marrying a woman named Tatyana Galkin.” He paused, waiting for a grunt of recognition or at least congratulations, but none came. “Her father wants me to sign a prenup.” He looked back at Galkin’s office, saw Arkady deep in conversation with Dowling.

“Okay,” Brad said. “Is she related to Arkady Galkin?”

“His daughter, right.”

“One of those Russian oligarchs. So his lawyer is Bill Dowling, probably.”

“Right.”

“Tiny firm, but they do most of the high-net-worth divorces in Manhattan. Dowling’s good. Anyway, email it to me, and I’ll try to take a look at it this morning. Don’t sign anything until I give you a call.”

“Okay. Thanks, Brad.” He pressed the End button and returned to Galkin’s office.

“Can you email me a copy?” Paul said to the lawyer.

“Of course.”

Paul gave Dowling his email address, then said, “Let’s take a look.” He opened the blue folder. The document was eighty-five pages long. On the first page, it read:

PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT

THIS AGREEMENT is made this ___ day of ____ . . . by and between Paul A. Brightman of New York, New York, and Tatyana Arkadiyevna Galkina of New York, New York . . .

He skimmed the document at high speed. Eighty-five pages of fairly dense prose, written in high legalese ( Each party shall, upon the request of the other, execute, acknowledge and deliver any instruments that may be reasonably required to carry the intention of this Agreement into effect, including written consents to the election by the other of them to waive any qualified joint or survivor annuity . . . ) with Galkin and his lawyer breathing down his neck.

The basic point seemed to be: What’s mine is mine —when we got married—and what’s yours is yours . That seemed fair to him. Though he wasn’t going to admit it.

One page stated the couple’s assets. Tatyana had less than Paul had expected. There was a trust fund, worth a few million dollars. Then he came upon this sentence: “She is the beneficiary of substantial trusts significantly in excess of two hundred million dollars.”

There was a place where Paul was supposed to state his assets. That was easy. He had some money saved up in a retirement account and a decent chunk of money invested. Less than Tatyana had. A lot less.

This felt to Paul like one of those hinge moments in your life, that this decision would have enormous repercussions, whichever way he went. Well, he’d known Tatyana was wealthy, by virtue of her being Arkady Galkin’s daughter, but he wasn’t interested in her wealth. If he signed this contract, and if he and Tatyana were later to divorce, he wouldn’t see a penny. That seemed fair to him. Let her see that he was marrying her for her , not for her father’s money.

“These are pretty tough terms,” he said to Galkin, who smiled.

“Only if you get divorced.”

“Well, let me ask you something. Would you have signed such an agreement before your first marriage?

Galkin shrugged. “I would never sign such a thing.”

Paul laughed.

“But you are in different situation,” Galkin went on. “My advice to you: don’t get divorced.”