Chapter 2
I didn't even remember how I made it home.
The garage door slid open, I pulled in, and killed the engine.
Everything was pitch black, except for the headlights lighting up a small patch of concrete wall in front of me.
I sat in the driver's seat for a long time.
My fingers were so cold I could barely grip the steering wheel.
I pulled out my phone. James' name was still on the screen.
I tapped it and deleted the contact.
I did it fast, as though deleting his name could delete him from my life.
It didn't work.
The house, the car, and the card had all come from him.
I got out of the car, stepped into the elevator, and went back to the place I used to call home.
The three-thousand-square-foot apartment was empty and echoing.
I turned on every light, but the cold, sterile brightness made everything feel fake.
Our wedding photo was still hanging on the wall.
The man in the photo was handsome and gentle, his eyes filled with love as he looked at me.
But it was all a lie.
I walked over, reached for the frame, ready to pull it down.
Halfway there, my hand faltered and fell back to my side.
There was no point in taking it down now.
It would only make me look pathetic.
I sat down on the living room couch, still in my coat, arms crossed, just waiting.
Waiting for him to come home.
I was going to get some answers.
Time crawled by, the ticking of the clock on the wall felt like it was hammering at my nerves.
Ten o'clock.
Eleven o'clock.
Twelve o'clock.
The door opened.
James came home.
He brought the chill of the street in with him, and a faint trace of perfume came with it.
Gardenia.
It was the same scent that had filled the company lobby that morning.
James stopped short when he saw me sitting in the dark.
"Why are the lights off?" he asked.
He reached out and switched on the entryway light.
Then he caught sight of my expression.
The shock in his eyes drained away, bit by bit.
His face settled into an almost frightening calm.
The calm was worse than anger.
"You know everything now," he said.
It wasn't a question.
It was a statement.
I looked at him, the man I had loved and believed I controlled for six years.
Now, I couldn't read him at all.
"Why?" I finally spoke, my voice rough and hoarse.
"There's no why, Sophia. It's business," he said, sliding off his coat and hanging it up.
"Business?" I laughed, the sound uglier than crying. "Was our marriage just business?"
"What else did you think it was?" he said, and his tone stayed flat.
He walked over to the bar, poured himself a glass of water, and took a sip.
"Your family invested in me back then, and I valued your background. We both got what we needed," he said.
"That's a nice way to put it," I said, standing and walking toward him. "James, don't forget that without my father you'd still be working for somebody else."
"I haven't forgotten," he said, and his face didn't move. "That's why I gave you six years as Mrs. Sinclair. I never asked what you spent, and I signed off on everyone you fired. Wasn't that enough?"
"It's not enough!" I yelled. "What makes you think you can just hand over what's mine to someone else?"
"Yours?" He finally smiled, and there was pity in it. "Sophia, I think you have this backward. The company is mine and the shares are mine, and I can give them to anyone I want."
He set down his glass, pulled a document from his coat pocket, and tossed it onto the bar.
"I've already signed the divorce papers," he said.
There was another document.
It felt like I'd spent the whole day just staring at papers.
I walked over and picked it up.
I flipped to the last page.
He had left me something after all.
A small apartment out past the edge of town, a five-year-old car, and 300 thousand dollars.
Three hundred thousand dollars.
It felt like scraps thrown at a beggar.
I was shaking with rage, grabbing the papers, about to tear them up.
"Think it through," James said from behind me, and his voice was cold.
"Tear that up, and you might not even see the 300 thousand," he added.
I froze.
"Emily Lane," I said, using her name. "Who is she? When did it start?"
"It doesn't matter," he said.
"Doesn't matter?" I spun around, fixing him with a hard glare. "You made a fool out of me for six years, and now you say it doesn't matter?"
He just stared back at me, silent for a few seconds.
"Three years ago," he finally replied.
Three words, and that was all he gave me.
They went into me like three separate knives.
Three years ago, on our wedding anniversary, he gave me a new car.
He had said I worked too hard and deserved it.
He had already been with someone else.
The room spun, and I grabbed the bar to keep from collapsing.
"James, you're unbelievable," I said, my voice trembling with anger.
"You're the one who was stupid," he said. "You cared about your bags and your parties. When did you ever care about me? Or about the company?"
I couldn't argue, because he was right.
I had nothing to say.
I had always believed he was a kite, and I was holding the string, and it didn't matter how high he flew.
He had cut the string a long time ago and handed it to someone else.
"Get out," I said, pointing at the door.
"You're the one who should go," he said, and every word landed clean. "Emily is moving into this house tomorrow, so have your things out by noon."
My head was ringing.
"What did you just say?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"I said this house belongs to Emily now. I transferred it to her a month ago," he said.
He looked at my ashen face and seemed satisfied with it.
"Sophia, the game's over. You're out," he said.
He picked up his coat, walked out without a backward glance.
The door closed behind him.
The world went completely silent.
I stood there with that ridiculous divorce agreement still in my hand.
Three hundred thousand dollars.
Tomorrow, noon.
He had it all figured out.
He was going to wipe me out for good.
My tears finally fell.