Chapter 1

"From now on, we split everything. I only pay for myself." My husband dropped those cold words.

I didn't argue. I didn't say a single word in response.

The next day, I listed every sellable item in our house online.

My friend and I opened a little shop together. Business was so good that customers lined up outside the door.

My husband stared at the increasingly empty house and the pile of bills. His face turned gray.

He had no idea that my version of "splitting everything" had only just begun.

*****

The midnight air felt heavy, like a block of lead pressing down on everything.

A tired shadow trailed behind Michael Grant as he came through the front door. He was home.

He took off his coat with his usual impatient motion and tossed a stack of bills onto the dining table. The red notices for overdue payments stood out like warnings.

The paper slid across the smooth surface and stopped right next to my hand. It felt like a cold verdict being delivered.

"From now on, we split everything. I only pay for myself," he said.

His voice had no emotion. He said it like he was stating a simple fact, the same way someone might say it would rain tomorrow.

In that moment, I felt my heart get squeezed by an invisible hand and then plunged into ice water.

We had been married for seven years. I had gone from being a new employee to a full-time homemaker.

I knew every scratch on every floorboard in this house. I knew exactly which drawer held each pair of his socks. I could make his favorite dish with my eyes closed.

I thought all of that was effort. I thought it was love. I thought it was what you did when you built a life with someone.

But to him, it had always been a transaction that could be canceled at any time. And now, he wanted to end that transaction.

I didn't look at him. My eyes stayed on the bowl of soup in front of me. It had gone cold long ago.

The oil had congealed into a cloudy white layer on top. That was exactly how I felt inside.

I didn't cry. I didn't demand an explanation.

What was the point of fighting? Arguing with a man who already saw me as a roommate, or worse, as a bad investment, would only make me look more pitiful.

I stood up silently and started clearing the dishes.

The sound of porcelain clinking together cut through the quiet night. One clink after another, each one hitting my already numb nerves.

My fingertips turned white from gripping too hard. My knuckles trembled slightly.

He probably thought I was having an emotional reaction. Or maybe he thought I was giving him the silent treatment.

He didn't even bother to look at me twice. He walked straight into the bathroom, and soon I heard the sound of running water.

That sound felt like it was separating two different worlds.

I washed every dish, dried them, and put them back in the cupboard. I moved like a precise machine.

When I finished, I didn't go to the bedroom.

I sat on the living room sofa for the entire night.

Morning light crept through the gap in the curtains and slowly illuminated what I had once believed was my whole world.

I looked at our huge wedding photo on the wall. In the picture, I was smiling so sweetly, leaning against him with so much trust and reliance in my eyes.

How ridiculous.

The next morning, when Michael walked out of the bedroom, he wasn't greeted by a warm breakfast or neatly pressed shirts.

Instead, he found an empty dining table and me sitting in front of the computer with my back turned to him.

"Where's breakfast? I have an early meeting today." He frowned, annoyed that his routine had been disrupted.

I didn't turn around. My fingers kept flying across the keyboard. "Split everything, remember? Handle your own breakfast."

My voice was calm. He couldn't hear any emotion in it.

He choked on my words. His face changed color.

It was probably the first time he had heard me push back so directly.

He walked over to see what I was doing.

On my computer screen was a page I had just set up on a secondhand marketplace. The title read, "Household Items for Sale. Priced to Go."

The photos showed the first designer bag he had ever given me, the jewelry I had saved up to buy myself, the leather sofa set we had bought only six months ago, and even his prized collection of limited edition sneakers displayed in a glass cabinet.

"Emily, have you lost your mind?" His voice shot up.

I finally turned around and met his shocked and angry gaze.

"I haven't lost anything." I closed the page and stood up. "I'm getting ready for my new 'split everything' life. These things are either my pre-marital property or items I bought with my own money. I need cash now."

I pointed at the sneakers highlighted in the photo and added one more thing. "Oh, and those shoes are yours. I didn't list them. Since we're splitting everything, I can't touch your personal property, right?"

His lips trembled with anger. He pointed at me but couldn't get a single word out.

"You're just throwing a tantrum," he finally managed to say.

He still couldn't believe that Emily, the woman who had obeyed him for seven years, would actually fight back.

He thought this was only some game I was playing to get his attention.

He let out a cold laugh, grabbed his car keys, and slammed the door behind him.

The loud bang shook the wedding photo on the wall.

I looked at the closed door and smiled.

That smile was cold. It didn't reach my eyes.

Michael didn't understand. This wasn't a tantrum.

This was a settlement. A complete, thorough settlement of our household, initiated by you and executed by me.

My version of "splitting everything" has only just begun.