Sign the divorce papers, Eleanor, or I’ll make sure you walk out of this

“Sweetheart,” I said softly, pulling a slim leather portfolio from the entryway drawer, “before you threaten me again, you should probably sit down.” Marcus laughed, that ugly bark I’d learned to flinch at. Brittany rolled her eyes. I opened the portfolio. “Vance Capital Holdings. The parent company that owns your hedge fund, your office building, this house, and the yacht you named after your mistress.” I slid a single page across the console table. “Founded by my late father in 1987. Restructured in 2009 when your fund nearly collapsed and I quietly bailed you out using my trust. You signed everything that night, Marcus. You were too drunk to read it. I own seventy-eight percent of your company.” The color drained from his face. “That’s impossible. My lawyers—” “Were my father’s lawyers first. They’ve worked for me the entire time.” I turned to Brittany, who had gone very still. “Sweetheart, those pearls belonged to my grandmother. Put them on the table before you leave.” She fumbled at the clasp. I pulled out a second envelope. “This morning at nine a.m., the board voted unanimously to remove you as CEO. Cause: misappropriation of client funds to purchase that yacht and a Manhattan penthouse for Miss Brittany here. The SEC received the same file at nine-oh-five.” Marcus sank onto the bench by the door, gasping like a landed fish. “Eleanor, please, we can talk about this—” “We did talk, Marcus. For eighteen years. You just never listened.” I picked up my coffee again. “The divorce papers are already drafted. You’ll keep your clothes and your car. I’ll keep everything else, including our daughters, who recorded your little speech on the doorbell camera. They’ve been asking when I’d finally do this.” I opened the front door. The morning light poured in. “Oh, and Marcus? You’re right about one thing. I am walking out of this marriage with absolutely nothing.” I gestured around the foyer. “Because none of this was ever yours to give.”