Sign the divorce papers, Claire, before I tell the judge you’re an unfit mother

I picked up the folder. I didn’t open it. “Marcus,” I said softly, “before I sign, you should meet someone.” I tapped my phone twice. The front door opened. In walked Diane Whitfield — silver bob, charcoal suit, the kind of woman who made CEOs reschedule their colonoscopies. Marcus’s face went the color of skim milk. “That’s… that’s the senior partner at Whitfield and Crane.” “Mm-hmm,” I said. “She’s my attorney. Also my business partner.” His mouth opened. Nothing came out. “Remember the little baking blog you mocked at Thanksgiving? The one you called my cute hobby?” I slid my laptop across the island. “Forty-two thousand subscribers. A cookbook deal with HarperCollins signed Tuesday. And a licensing contract with Williams Sonoma that closed Friday — under my maiden name, in an LLC you have no claim to, because I incorporated it three weeks before we got married. Diane made sure.” Diane smiled politely and set down her briefcase. “Mr. Hale, about that prenup. We’ve had it reviewed. It’s unenforceable — improperly witnessed, no independent counsel for your wife, and a clause that violates state statute. However,” she opened a folder of her own, “we did find the joint account where you’ve been transferring funds to a Ms. Brittany Cole since last March. Forty-one thousand dollars. Your wife has photographs, receipts, and a very cooperative hotel concierge.” Marcus grabbed the counter like the floor was tilting. “Claire — baby — let’s just talk —” “You called me unfit twenty seconds ago.” I untied my apron and folded it neatly. “Lily and I are staying. You’re leaving. Diane has a list of acceptable hotels. The cinnamon rolls are for my photographer — she’s shooting the cover today.” He stood there, shrinking, as Diane handed him a pen. “Sign here, Mr. Hale. Before I tell the judge.” Lily peeked around the doorway. “Mommy, is Daddy crying?” I knelt down and smiled. “Daddy’s just leaving, sweetheart. Want a cinnamon roll?”