‘Go ahead,’ my rich husband said. ‘I’ll give you a week without me.’ I put the keys on the counter and walked out with just my phone, leaving him to believe I’d come back begging. The next morning, his father and his boss were banging on the door: ‘The bank just called, what have you done?!’

The sound of the suitcase zipper cutting through the silence felt louder than it should have.

Naomi Bennett stood in the middle of her kitchen, the marble countertops gleaming under the pendant lights, and looked at the man she’d called her husband for eight years.

Donovan leaned against the island, arms crossed, that insufferable smirk playing on his lips. He wore a gray suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent, his watch catching the light every time he moved his wrist. Everything about him screamed money, power, control.

“So you’re really doing this?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement. “You’re really going to walk out?”

Naomi’s hands were steady as she placed her house keys on the counter. The metal clinked against the marble, a sound of finality.

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