And then, lounging casually against the custom wainscoting of my kitchen archway, was Brooke Miller.
Brooke was a junior art director at Jason’s failing firm. I had met her at three corporate dinners. But today, she wasn’t wearing business casual. She was wearing a vibrant, emerald-green silk robe. My silk robe. The one with my intertwined initials—E.R.C.—monogrammed in gold thread over the breast pocket. She was holding my favorite ceramic mug, taking a slow, deliberate sip of coffee, staring at me with the smug, entitled expression of a conqueror surveying her newly acquired territory.
Jason didn’t offer a greeting. He didn’t flinch at the sight of me. He reached onto the marble counter and picked up a thick, manila envelope. He held it out toward me, the air in the room turning brittle.
“Sign,” he ordered, his voice flat, rehearsed.
I didn’t take it. I lowered my gaze. Through the small, rectangular window cut into the envelope, I could see the bold, black typography. Petition for Absolute Divorce.
“You’re useless to me now, Emily,” Jason continued. He possessed a chronic, nervous tremor whenever he was executing a lie, and I watched his left thumb twitch against the paper. “You did exactly what you were good for. The debt is clear. I’m starting fresh. Now, get your remaining things and get out.”
Linda took a deliberate, high-heeled step forward, dropping a roll of tape onto the counter with a loud clatter. “It’s truly for the best, Emily. You must see that. Jason requires someone… significantly more supportive. Someone who fundamentally understands how to build a legacy, not just hoard money.”
Brooke shifted her weight, a smirk playing at the corners of her glossy lips. She traced the rim of my mug with a manicured nail. “Let’s not make this messy, Em. The boxes are right there. Have some dignity and leave quietly.”
A tiny, razor-sharp spark of genuine amusement ignited in my chest. The audacity was so astronomical it bordered on the surreal.
“So,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, slicing through their arrogance. “The grand strategy is to forcefully eject me from the premises less than twenty-four hours after I supposedly save you from financial ruin? While your mistress wears my clothes?”
