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

I picked up the pen. Richard finally looked up, smug, expecting tears. Instead, I smiled. “Before I sign, Richard, you should know something. Remember when you told me to handle the LLC paperwork in 2011 because you were too busy closing the Denver deal? You signed where I told you to sign. You never read a single page.” His espresso cup paused halfway to his mouth. “Holdings Group, the parent company that owns the firm, the penthouse, the boat, the Aspen house, even your beloved Porsche, is registered in my name. Solely. You’ve been an employee of my company for thirteen years.” The color drained from his face like someone had pulled a plug. “That’s, that’s not, my lawyers,” he stammered. “Your lawyers,” I said, sliding a second folder across the marble, the one I’d had ready for eight months, “already received the documentation last Tuesday. Along with the forensic accountant’s report on the four hundred thousand dollars you funneled to Brielle’s “consulting” firm. Company funds, Richard. My company.” I tore his divorce papers neatly in half. “I’ll be filing my own. Irreconcilable differences. And embezzlement. The board meets Friday to vote on your removal. I already have eleven of thirteen votes.” He sank onto the barstool, finally silent. I poured myself coffee from the French press he’d bought me for our tenth anniversary, the only thing in this house I actually planned to keep. “Brielle can have the clothes on your back,” I added gently. “Everything else was always mine.” I walked upstairs to get dressed. For the first time in sixteen years, I didn’t tiptoe.