Sign the divorce papers, Claire, or I swear I’ll make sure you walk out

Marcus smirked and slid the papers across the marble like he’d already won. Vanessa actually giggled. I signed every page he pointed to, calm as still water, and slid the stack back. “There,” I said. “All yours. Just like the company.”

His smile flickered. “What did you just say?”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and turned the screen toward him. “Sterling Consulting. The LLC you’ve been bragging about at every dinner party. Did you ever actually read the operating agreement, Marcus? Or did you just sign where I told you to, the same way you used to sign birthday cards for your mother?”

His face went the color of wet cement.

“I’m the sole managing member,” I said. “You’re a salaried employee. Were a salaried employee. As of nine a.m. this morning, when I forwarded eighteen months of expense reports to the board — the Cabo trips, the Cartier receipts, the ‘client dinners’ at the W Hotel with a woman who doesn’t work for any of our clients.” I glanced at Vanessa. “Hi, by the way. The forensic accountant says hello too.”

Vanessa slid off the stool like the leather had burned her. “You said she didn’t know anything about the business.”

“He says a lot of things,” I answered. “He told me you were his assistant. He told the IRS you were a 1099 contractor. He told his mother you were his cousin. Pick a lane, sweetheart.”

Marcus lunged for the papers. “Claire, wait — we can talk about this — “

“We did talk,” I said softly. “For twelve years. You just weren’t listening.” I picked up my mug, walked past him, and dumped the cold tea down the sink. “The locksmith comes at seven. The house is in my name too. You really should read what you sign, Marcus. I always did.”

I walked upstairs without looking back, and for the first time in a decade, the silence behind me sounded like mine.