Sign the divorce papers, Eleanor, or I’ll make sure you leave this marriage with

I signed my name slowly, each loop of the cursive deliberate, while Brittany giggled into her glass. David leaned back, victorious. “Smart girl. I was worried you’d cry.” I slid the papers back across the marble. “Oh, I’m not crying, David. I’m just wondering if you actually read what you handed me.” His smirk faltered. I tapped the top page. “These aren’t the prenup terms. These are the dissolution papers your lawyer drafted assuming our prenup was valid.” Brittany blinked. “So?” I turned to her, gentle as a kindergarten teacher. “So the prenup was voided eight years ago, sweetheart. When David begged me to refinance my inheritance into his failing tech startup, my attorney made him sign a postnup. Everything — the company, this house, the lake property — became joint marital assets acquired through my separate funds.” David’s face drained of color. “That’s not — you’re bluffing.” I pulled a manila folder from the drawer beneath the oven mitts. I’d kept it there for three years, ever since I’d first smelled Brittany’s perfume on his collar. Inside were the postnup, the refinance records, and the forensic accountant’s report tracing every dollar of his “success” back to my grandmother’s trust. “I’m not bluffing. I’m the majority shareholder of Hartwell Tech. I have been since 2017. The board meets Monday, and they already have my letter requesting your removal as CEO for cause — specifically, the company credit card charges to The Ritz-Carlton, the Cartier receipts, and the apartment lease on 5th Avenue.” Brittany set down her champagne very, very carefully. “David. You told me she was a housewife.” I picked up my cobbler and slid it onto a cooling rack. “I am a housewife, Brittany. I just happen to also be his boss.” David lunged for the folder. I lifted it out of reach. “Copies are with my attorney, the board chair, and the IRS. That last one is because of the offshore account, David. We really need to talk about the offshore account.” He sank into a barstool, trembling. Brittany grabbed her purse and walked out without a word — her heels clicking like a metronome counting down his entire life. I cut a slice of cobbler and pushed it toward him. “Eat. You’ll need the energy for Monday.”