My husband had no idea my annual income was $2.7 million when he screamed at me, “Hey, you sick bitch! I’ve already filed the divorce papers. Get out of my house tomorrow!”

The strange thing about making $2.7 million a year is that it doesn’t have to look like anything at all. I didn’t wear designer labels. I didn’t flood social media with luxury trips. I drove an aging Lexus and let my husband, Trent, believe I was merely “comfortable” because I worked in “consulting.” He preferred that version of me—it made him feel larger than life.

That evening, I came home earlier than expected from a medical check-up. I still had the hospital bracelet on my wrist, forgotten in the haze. My hands carried the scent of disinfectant and exhaustion. All I wanted was a hot shower, a cup of tea, and sleep.

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