Chapter 2

"So," I said, meeting his eyes, "where were you last night? Were you with her?"

James's jaw tightened. "It doesn't matter." That was his tell when he was angry. I knew it all too well.

"It matters," I said. "It matters a hell of a lot. Last night was our anniversary, and my husband was sleeping with another woman. Maybe you were even rubbing her belly, picking out baby names together."

"That's enough."

"Enough?" I let out a bitter laugh and shook my head. "Not even close, James. This is getting started."

He stared at me, his eyes dark and heavy. For a split second, I thought he might lose it. But he didn't. He took a deep breath, and that calm, unflappable James was back.

"Take your time with the agreement. I'll have Secretary Parker reach out to you in the next couple of days."

"No need," I said. "I'll sign it right now."

James was caught off guard, stunned for a moment.

I took a Montblanc pen from the coffee table drawer, the one I had given him for his birthday. The irony stung.

"Here," I said, holding out the pen to him. "You need to sign your copy too, right? Let's do this together."

James didn't take the pen. He stared at me, as if he was seeing me for the first time. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," I said, flipping to the last page and finding the signature line. "But the terms are going to change."

"What terms?"

"I don't want the house," I said.

He frowned. "Why?"

"It's too big. I'd be scared living there alone," I said, signing my name on the line: Emily Lane. I'd been writing that name for three years, and it still didn't look particularly elegant.

"I don't want the car either. You can keep it," I added.

"Emily..."

"We'll split the savings fifty-fifty," I said, looking up at him with a smile. "But 670,000 dollars isn't enough. I want 1.67 million dollars."

James's expression relaxed, as if this finally matched the gold digger he had always assumed I was. He had never said it aloud, but I knew. After all, I came from an ordinary family, while he believed he had married beneath him.

"Fine," he said.

"And one more thing," I said as I wrote the date, December 18. What a perfect day. "Wire 330,000 dollars to my account today."

"Why?"

"A deposit," I said, handing him the pen after signing my last copy. "I'm making sure you don't back out."

James took the pen and signed his copy. "Give me your account number." His signature cut across the page, as sharp as always.

I gave him the account number. He tapped on his phone. A few minutes later, mine buzzed with a bank alert: [330,000 dollars received.]

That was fast.

"All done," James said, gathering up the papers and handing me a copy. "Keep this. I'll pick you up next week, and we'll go to the city hall."

"No need," I said. "I'll go by myself. Send me the time and place on WhatsApp."

"Alright," he turned to leave again.

"James," I called out to him again.

This time, he was clearly getting impatient. "What now?"

"Nice tie," I said. "Is it new?"

He glanced down at his tie, his fingers absentmindedly brushing it. "Yeah."

"Did she give it to you?"

He didn't answer. But his silence said it all.

"Not bad," I said. "You've got better taste than me. Did you throw away the ones I bought?"

"No," James replied.

"So you put them away. Guess you won't be wearing them anymore," I nodded. "Alright, go ahead. Don't be late for your ten o'clock meeting, Mr. Hartley."

I said the last two words softly, like a feather, but with a sting.

James gave me one last look. His expression was complicated, and something flickered in his eyes for a moment. I couldn't make it out, nor did I want to.

He left.

The door closed softly with a click. Then I heard the elevator as he headed downstairs.

I stood there, listening to the elevator descend. Then I walked to the window and drew the sheer curtain aside.

Soon his black Mercedes emerged from the underground garage. Its license plate ended in 777, a number he always called lucky.

The car rolled out of the complex, took a turn, and vanished from sight.

I stayed standing for ages, until my legs went numb. Only then did I finally sink into a chair.

My copy of the divorce agreement sat on the coffee table. His was gone with him.

The bank alert still glowed on my screen: [330,000 dollars received.] I stared at the amount and counted the digits three times. No mistake.

Then I opened my contacts, found a name, and dialed.

The phone rang three times before someone picked up.

"Emily?" Michael Lane's gentle voice came through the line.

"Michael," I said, my voice suddenly catching in my throat.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"Michael, can you come over?" I asked, staring at the empty house. "Right now."

Michael got there quickly. Forty minutes after my call, the doorbell rang.

When I opened the door, he was holding a bag of fruit, still in his scrubs with a puffer jacket over them. He was a surgeon, supposed to be working today.

"What is wrong? Why the rush..." He stopped when he saw my face and froze.

"Come in," I said, turning and heading inside.

Michael Lane followed me in, closing the door behind him. He set the fruit down on the coffee table, then gently pushed my shoulders so I'd sit. He crouched right in front of me, looking up with concern.

"Have you been crying?" Michael asked, staring into my eyes.

"No."

"You're lying to me," he frowned. "What's really going on? Where's James?"

"He's gone."

"Where'd he go?"

"I don't know. Maybe to the office. Maybe to another woman," I forced a bitter smile. "He doesn't want me anymore, Michael."

Michael's face froze. "What do you mean?"