The pen felt heavy in my hand as I signed the last page of our divorce papers.
Across the mahogany table sat my ex-husband, David Reynolds, grinning smugly. Beside him, his new fiancée Amber—a twenty-eight-year-old “wellness coach” with perfect hair and zero shame—smirked as if she’d already won some grand prize.
“Ten thousand dollars,” David said smoothly, sliding the check toward me. “That’s more than fair, considering you didn’t really contribute financially.”
I clenched my jaw. We’d been married for fifteen years. I’d given up my marketing career to support his startup—late nights, endless business dinners, comforting him through every failure. And now that his company had finally been acquired for millions, I was being dismissed like an employee he’d outgrown.
Amber reached for his hand. “Sweetheart, we should go. The realtor’s meeting is in an hour. Remember, we’re looking at that place near the lake.”
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