Sign the divorce papers, Emma. My new fiancée doesn’t want a sick, broke wife

I set the pen down gently. “Marcus, before I sign, there’s something you should know about Dr. Whitaker’s foundation.” His smirk faltered. Dr. Eleanor Whitaker was the chief of oncology, the woman whose recommendation letter Marcus had been begging for to secure his cardiology fellowship. “She’s my aunt. My mother’s sister. The one I stopped speaking to after she disapproved of you eleven years ago.” The color drained from his face. “Last month, when I was diagnosed, she reached out. We reconciled over hospital pudding and old photographs. She’s been my primary advocate. She also reviews every fellowship application that crosses this hospital’s board.” I pulled a folded letter from beneath the divorce papers. “This is the formal complaint I filed yesterday with the medical board. About a married resident conducting an affair with an attending physician’s wife. About prescription samples that went missing from the oncology wing, samples I can prove were transferred to Bianca’s apartment. Hospital security cameras are wonderful, Marcus.” His knees actually buckled against the chair. “And the house? The one in your name only? Funded by the inheritance my mother left specifically to me, traced through every bank statement my aunt’s attorney has already subpoenaed. Fraudulent conveyance, they call it.” Bianca pushed through the curtain, sensing the silence. I smiled at her for the first time. “Sweetheart, you might want to check your email. Your residency supervisor just received some very interesting photographs.” Marcus reached for the papers, suddenly desperate. “Emma, wait, we can talk, please, I was scared, I panicked.” I tore the divorce documents in half, then in quarters. “Oh, we’re still getting divorced. But on my terms. With my lawyers. And Marcus?” I lifted my chin. “My oncologist says the tumor is responding beautifully. I’m going to outlive your career by about forty years.” The pen rolled off the tray and clattered to the floor. Neither of us picked it up.