Sign the divorce papers, Emma, or I’ll make sure the whole medical board knows

I opened the envelope slowly, the way he’d taught me to open surgical sutures — steady, unhurried. Inside were the papers. I set them aside and pulled a second envelope from my clutch. His smile flickered. ‘What’s that?’ I laid it flat. ‘Julian, do you remember the research you published last spring? The cardiac regeneration paper that got you the Vance Fellowship named in your honor?’ He shrugged, irritated. ‘Of course.’ ‘I wrote sixty-two percent of it,’ I said quietly. ‘The data models. The literature review. Three of the four case studies. I have every draft, every timestamp, every email where you asked me to ‘clean it up.” The color drained from his face. I kept going. ‘I also have your correspondence with Dr. Hollis at Cornell — the one where you promised her a co-authorship in exchange for burying my name. She kept those emails, Julian. She sent them to me last month, along with an apology.’ The violinist moved to the next table. Julian leaned forward, voice low. ‘Emma, whatever you think you have —’ ‘I already filed it,’ I said. ‘This morning. With the ethics board, the journal, and the fellowship committee. And with Mercy General, where I accepted the head of research position two weeks ago. The one they offered me after I presented my own findings under my own name.’ He reached for his water and missed the glass. ‘As for my ‘breakdown’ last year,’ I added, sliding a folded letter toward him, ‘my therapist wrote this. It documents the emotional abuse I reported, with dates. My attorney has the original.’ I picked up the divorce papers, uncapped my pen, and signed them cleanly. ‘You were right about one thing, Julian. I shouldn’t embarrass myself.’ I stood, smoothed the burgundy dress, and set my wedding ring on top of the papers. ‘So I’ll let you do it for me.’ I walked past the violinist, tipped him fifty dollars, and stepped into the New York night — for the first time in eight years, entirely under my own name.