Just sign the divorce papers, Eleanor, and crawl back to whatever trailer park raised

Victor slid the papers across the table like he was feeding a stray dog. ‘Sign, sweetheart. Don’t make a scene.’ Brielle giggled into her wine. I picked up the pen, hovered over the line, then set it down. ‘Before I sign, Victor, I want to thank you. For ten years you told me I was too stupid to understand your business. So I taught myself. Every night, after you passed out, I read the books. I took the online courses. I even got the CPA license — under my maiden name.’ His smirk twitched. I reached into my purse and pulled out a thin manila folder. ‘These are the offshore accounts you opened in my name without telling me. Tax fraud, Victor. Roughly four point two million in undeclared income, filed under a wife who, legally, knew nothing.’ Brielle’s wine glass paused mid-air. ‘I reported it. Voluntarily. Three months ago. The IRS calls that whistleblower cooperation. They call you something else.’ Victor’s face drained to the color of the tablecloth. ‘You — you wouldn’t —’ ‘I already did. And the penthouse? Bought during our marriage with commingled funds. The cars, the company shares, all community property in this state. My lawyer filed at four this afternoon. You were served an hour ago. Check your jacket pocket.’ He fumbled, pulled out the envelope the maître d’ had ‘mistakenly’ handed him. His hand trembled. ‘As for DeltaCore — the board met this morning. Turns out the silent partner who bailed you out in 2019 was my father, through a holding company. Controlling interest reverted to me at noon.’ I finally picked up the pen, signed my name with a flourish, and slid the divorce papers back. ‘Keep these. You’ll need something to read in the waiting room.’ I stood, dropped two hundred dollars on the table. ‘Dinner’s on me, Brielle. Enjoy him while you can. The repo trucks arrive Monday.’ I walked out into the cold New York air, and for the first time in twelve years, I breathed all the way down to my feet.