Sign the papers, Diana, or walk out of here with nothing but the clothes

I clicked the pen open and looked at him over the rim of my water glass. ‘Trevor, before I sign, I want you to know something.’ He rolled his eyes and gestured for the waiter. ‘Make it quick. Whitney and I have reservations.’ I almost laughed. ‘Funny you mention reservations. Do you remember Henderson Capital? The investors who funded your startup in 2021?’ His jaw tightened. ‘What about them?’ I opened my purse and pulled out a slim folder. ‘Henderson Capital is a holding company. I started it the year before we married, using the inheritance from my grandfather. I’m the sole owner.’ The color drained from his face like someone had pulled a plug. ‘You’re lying.’ I slid the incorporation documents across the table, right next to his postnup. ‘I own sixty-eight percent of your company, Trevor. I have since the day you took my money and called it a loan from anonymous investors. Every late night you spent with Whitney, you were working for me.’ Whitney, who had drifted closer to eavesdrop, froze beside our table. I turned to her with the warmest smile I could manage. ‘Sweetheart, you should know — the penthouse he promised you? It’s leased through the company. My company. The board meets Monday. Trevor will be voted out by ten a.m., and the locks on the apartment will be changed by noon.’ Trevor lunged for the documents. I lifted them out of reach. ‘Sign your own papers, darling. I had my lawyer draft a divorce filing this morning. You keep the Honda. I keep everything else.’ I stood up, dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and looked at the maître d’, who had been waiting by the door. ‘Henri, the gentleman’s card has been declined. Please escort him out when he’s finished crying.’ I walked into the cool October air feeling, for the first time in three years, like I could breathe. Behind me, I heard Whitney’s heels clicking rapidly in the opposite direction.