“Before I sign, David, there’s something you should see.” I reached into the drawer beneath the espresso machine and pulled out a manila envelope. He rolled his eyes. “Helen, don’t embarrass yourself.” I slid it across the marble. Brittany leaned in, curious. He opened it — and the color drained from his face. Inside were the deed papers to Sweet Helen’s Bakeries, a chain of twelve locations across three states. The same “little hobby” he’d mocked at every dinner party. The same cinnamon rolls he called “cute” now grossed four million a year. “This — this can’t be right,” he stammered. “It’s right,” I said softly. “I incorporated under my maiden name the year you told me my baking was a waste of time. Remember? The night you said I should be grateful you let me stay home.” Brittany’s smile faltered. I pulled out a second envelope. “And this is from my attorney. The house? Bought in cash. By me. Two years ago. Your name was never on the deed — you were too busy in Aspen with her to notice the paperwork.” David’s hands were shaking. “Helen, wait, we can talk —” “We’re done talking.” I turned to Brittany, who was suddenly very interested in her shoes. “Sweetheart, that dress you’re wearing? I donated it to Goodwill last month. He bought it for you from a thrift bin and told you it was designer. Just thought you should know what kind of man you’re inheriting.” Her jaw dropped. I picked up the divorce papers, took a pen, and signed them with a flourish. “There. Now get out of MY house. You have twenty minutes before security escorts you off the property — yes, I have private security now. The bakery does well.” As David scrambled for his keys, I picked up a warm cinnamon roll, took a bite, and waved. “Oh, and David? The rolls are perfect today. Pity you’ll never taste them again.”
