I returned home after arranging cemetery details, exhausted and hollow. My suitcases sat by the door, sloppily packed. Clothes spilling out. Shoes scattered.

“Curtis?” I called out, confused.

He came down the stairs, glowing. No black clothes. No grief. A crisp shirt, an expensive watch, and champagne in hand.

“Vanessa,” he said smoothly, “it’s time we went our separate ways.”

I stared at him. “What are you saying?”

“My father’s gone,” he replied lightly. “And I’m the only heir. Seventy-five million dollars. That changes things.”

“It means responsibility,” I said quietly.

He laughed. “We?” he scoffed. “There is no ‘we.’ You were useful when Dad needed care. A free nurse. But now you’re just excess baggage. You don’t belong in the life I’m about to live.”

The words crushed me.

“I’m your wife,” I said. “I cared for him because I loved him—and because I loved you.”

“And I appreciate that,” he replied, tossing a check at my feet. “Ten thousand. Payment for your services. Now leave. I want you gone before my lawyer gets here. I’m renovating. This place smells old… and so do you.”

I begged. I reminded him of our years together. It meant nothing. He called security. They walked me out into the rain while he watched from above, sipping champagne.

That night, I slept in my car outside a 24-hour grocery store—ashamed, shattered, questioning how I’d given ten years of my life to a stranger.

Three weeks passed. I searched for cheap housing. Signed divorce papers. He wanted me erased quickly so he could enjoy his fortune without inconvenience.

Then the summons arrived.