Sign the divorce papers, Eleanor, or I’ll make sure you walk out of this

I picked up the pen slowly, letting Trevor enjoy his victory lap. Brittany giggled. Trevor leaned in and whispered, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, sweetheart.” I clicked the pen once. Twice. Then I set it down. “Before I sign,” I said softly, “there’s something you should probably read first.” I slid a manila folder across the marble. Trevor opened it, annoyed. His face drained as he scanned the first page. Then the second. Then the third. “This… this can’t be right,” he stammered. “It is,” I said. “The house isn’t marital property, Trevor. My grandmother’s trust purchased it in 2014 and placed it in an LLC that I solely manage. You’ve been living in my house. Rent free. For nine years.” Brittany’s smirk collapsed. “The car you drive? Leased through the same LLC. The country club membership you bragged about at every dinner party? Mine. The ‘family’ investment account you’ve been quietly draining for Brittany’s Bali trips? I was notified of every withdrawal. My attorney has the statements.” Trevor’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “And that prenup you waved in my face for seven years?” I smiled for the first time all evening. “It was voided the moment you signed a joint refinance application last March using forged figures. Fraud nullifies the agreement. My lawyer was very excited about that part.” I stood up, smoothing my faded sweater. “You can keep your MBA, Trevor. You can keep Brittany. You can keep the债 you racked up pretending to be wealthy. But you have forty-eight hours to vacate my home, and the forensic accountant arrives Monday.” Brittany turned on him. “You told me this was YOUR house!” Trevor reached for the papers, suddenly desperate. “Eleanor, wait, let’s talk—” I picked up the pen, drew a clean line through his proposed settlement, and wrote a new number in the margin. His number. What he owed me. He went pale. “I’ll be in the guest house,” I said, walking past him. “Which, by the way, is also mine.”