She laughed with his mistress at Bergdorf’s while swiping the black card I paid for

But once the system update hit, his name had been wiped from the guest list, the elevator code, and the building access entirely. The penthouse was mine—legally and financially. Ethan hadn’t read the fine print of our marriage agreement. I had. Because I wrote it.

While he fumed outside in last season’s Ferragamo loafers, I was upstairs sipping a glass of Barolo, already drafting the press release for my new venture—my own investment firm, separate from the Sinclair name.

Within forty-eight hours, the fallout began.