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

Marcus rolled his eyes and tore the envelope open like it was a joke he was performing for Brittany. The smirk slid off his face one document at a time. The first page was the deed to the Tribeca penthouse he bragged about at every dinner party — the one he’d told everyone he’d bought with his bonus. My name was the only name on it. Because seven years ago, when his firm almost went under and his father refused to bail him out, I’d quietly used my grandmother’s inheritance to buy it outright and let him pretend. The second page was the title to his Porsche. Same story. The third was a letter from the IRS, addressed to him, regarding the offshore account in the Caymans he thought no one knew about. The fourth was a forensic accountant’s report I’d commissioned six months ago, the day our housekeeper Maria found a hotel receipt in his coat pocket and brought it to me in tears. Brittany’s smile cracked. “Marcus,” she whispered, “what is she talking about?” I finally looked up. “I’m a schoolteacher, Marcus. I teach sixth grade math. Do you know what math teachers are very, very good at? Keeping receipts.” I stood, smoothed my cardigan, and set my wedding ring gently on top of the papers. “I already filed this morning. My lawyer is Diane Whitaker — yes, that Diane Whitaker, the one who handled your boss’s divorce. She says hello.” The color drained from his face so fast Brittany actually reached for her water. “As for walking out with nothing,” I added, “you’re absolutely right. One of us will. Enjoy the bourbon, Marcus. It’s the last thing in this restaurant you can actually afford.” I turned and walked toward the elevator. Behind me, I heard Brittany ask for her purse, then her coat, then an Uber. By the time the doors closed, Marcus was sitting alone at a table for three, signing the only paper that still had his name on it.