Sign the divorce papers, Emma, and be grateful I’m letting you keep the used

“Before I sign,” I said quietly, “can you confirm the house address on page four?” Marcus rolled his eyes. “1428 Bellhaven. My house. Now sign.” I turned the page toward him. “Read the deed line.” His jaw tightened. Diane leaned in, reading over his shoulder, and her lipstick went slack. The deed didn’t say Marcus Whitlock. It said Emma Reyes, sole owner, purchased outright in 2019 — the year Marcus’s second startup collapsed and I quietly bought the house from the bank to save us from foreclosure. He’d never bothered to read the paperwork he signed while crying on the couch. “That’s — that’s a mistake,” Marcus stammered. “No,” I said. “The mistake was you thinking I was too tired to notice things.” I slid a second folder across the marble. “This one you’ll want to read too.” Inside: bank statements showing the “joint” investment account he’d been draining for his mistress’s Aspen trips. Copies. Notarized. Already forwarded to his divorce attorney and, more importantly, to the IRS, because he’d been writing those trips off as “business development.” Diane finally spoke. “Emma, sweetheart, let’s be reasonable —” “Reasonable,” I repeated, “is you having thirty days to vacate MY house. Reasonable is the restraining order being filed at nine a.m. Reasonable is me finally eating dinner sitting down.” Marcus lunged for the folder. I lifted it out of reach the way I lift charts away from confused patients. “One more thing,” I said, pulling off the hospital ID clipped to my scrubs. Under NURSE it also read: Chief Nursing Officer. I got the promotion three weeks ago. I hadn’t told him, because he never asked how my day was. I walked to the front door, opened it, and held it wide. Diane clutched her purse. Marcus clutched the counter. “The used Honda,” I said sweetly, “is in the driveway. Take it. It’s the only thing here with your name on it.”