Chapter 2
The next morning, I went back to the place I'd called home for eight years.
I was there to pack up my things.
Trevor wasn't around.
The housekeeper, Betty, was there.
When Betty saw me, her eyes were red.
"Are you really leaving?" she asked.
"Yeah, I'm leaving," I replied.
"And the company?" she asked.
"It's got nothing to do with me now," I said.
Betty hesitated, like she wanted to say something but held back.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Mr. Harper called the house yesterday afternoon," Betty said.
"Which Mr. Harper?" I asked.
"The one from Harper & Co. Trading. He said he needed you to sign a confirmation letter," Betty replied.
William Harper was our biggest client. He purchased over 1.3 million dollars a year.
I was the one who landed that account.
Five years ago, Trevor made three trips to Seabrook and didn't come back with a deal.
The fourth time, I went with him.
At dinner, William's purchasing manager brought up a tricky technical spec. Trevor was stumped.
I jumped in.
I had spent two weeks prepping, and I had every product spec, competitor price, and industry standard memorized.
The purchasing manager glanced at me.
"And you are?" he asked.
"She handles the technical side," Trevor jumped in.
He didn't mention I was his wife.
He didn't mention I had no salary, no title, no business card.
That night, William added me on WhatsApp.
He said, "Sarah, you're really professional. From now on, I'll deal with you directly for all orders."
From then on, every one of those Seabrook orders, 1.3 million dollars a year, went through my hands.
I drafted the contracts, calculated the quotes, tracked the logistics, and handled all the after-sales service.
Five years.
Trevor never once asked about any of it.
He only ever smiled when he saw the annual revenue report and said, "Not bad this year."
Not bad.
That was all he ever said about the five years I spent running the Harper & Co. Trading account.
"Don't worry about Mr. Harper's call," I told Betty.
"But he said it was urgent," Betty said.
"Tell him to call Trevor," I replied.
I started gathering my things.
Clothes, toiletries, a few books.
All of it fit into one suitcase.
Eight years, and it all fit in one suitcase.
I stood in the walk-in closet and looked around one last time.
Trevor's side was lined with suits, leather shoes, and a watch box.
My side? Three coats, two pairs of flats, and a bag I'd carried for five years.
I had snagged that bag on sale. It listed at four hundred dollars, and I paid a hundred and thirty.
Last year, Trevor bought a bag for his "special friend," Julia Evans.
That cost him 10 thousand dollars.
I knew about it because I handled the company's finances.
He put it on the company's books as a "business gift."
When I saw that transaction on my computer, my hand froze for about ten seconds.
Then, I went back to the books.
I didn't ask him about it.
Not because I didn't want to, but because I already knew how it would play out.
He would say, "You're overthinking it. She's a friend, nothing more."
Or he would say, "You're always so paranoid. Aren't you tired of this?"
Or he would snap, "You're always so paranoid. Aren't you tired of this?"
So I didn't ask.
But I took a screenshot of that transaction.
I took screenshots of other things, too.
Over the past six years, I'd saved a lot of screenshots.
Not for divorce evidence. Back then, divorce had never crossed my mind.
It was only a feeling.
A feeling that I'd need them someday.
After packing, I sat in the living room for a while.
I had picked the decor, the curtains, the sofa, and the vase on the coffee table from IKEA.
That cost me 13 dollars.
Maybe the only thing in this "home" that was truly mine was that thirteen-dollar vase.
I picked up the vase and put it in my suitcase.
Then, I grabbed my suitcase, closed the door, and walked out.
On my way down, I ran into my neighbor, Janet.
"Sarah, moving out?" she asked.
"Yeah," I replied.
"Where to?" she asked.
"Somewhere new," I said.
Janet glanced at my suitcase and didn't press further.
In the cab, I got a message from Trevor.
Trevor: [Did you finish moving your stuff?]
Sarah: [Yeah.]
Trevor: [There's a pair of your slippers in the shoe cabinet by the door. If you don't want them, throw them out.]
I looked at the message and couldn't help but laugh.
After eight years of marriage, the last thing we had to discuss was a pair of slippers.
Sarah: [I don't want them.]
Trevor: [Alright.]
He didn't say anything else.
I closed the chat.
I scrolled through my contacts and stopped at another name.
Linda Grant.
She was the company's cashier, and I was the one who brought her in. She'd been with us for four years and knew the ropes inside out.
After we signed the papers the day before, she had texted me: [Sarah, are you really leaving?]
I didn't reply.
Now, I opened her chat.
Still, I didn't reply.
I scrolled to another name, Paul Strong.
He was the warehouse manager at Trevor's company.
I was the one who brought him in, too.
And Vera Lewis. She handled admin.
And Mike Martin. He was the driver and handled purchasing.
I was the one who interviewed and hired every single one of them.
Trevor never bothered with hiring. He would say, "You handle it."
The company went from the two of us to 53 people in six years.
I handled every single person's onboarding.
I calculated every single person's salary.
Whenever anyone had a problem, the first person they called was me.
They didn't call Trevor.
They called me.
But in Trevor's mouth, I was nothing but a "housewife."
Last month, he took his friends out for dinner, and the topic turned to wives.
He raised his glass, grinning, and said something.
I was sitting right there.
"She's a housewife. Doesn't know how to do anything. If she left me, she probably couldn't put food on the table," he said.
His friends laughed.
I laughed, too.
But I was laughing for a different reason.
That night, when I got home, I made up my mind.