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!”

I looked at Naomi, then out the hotel window, then back at my phone.

And I said the one sentence Trent never expected to hear from the “sick bitch”:

“Pack a bag,” I said evenly. “Because you’re the one leaving.”

He choked. “I’m not leaving my house.”

“It isn’t your house,” I repeated calmly. “It’s a marital asset purchased with my funds—documented. And your ‘out by tomorrow’ threat helps my case.”

“You can’t just throw me out,” he yelled, trying to regain control. “That’s illegal.”

Naomi leaned closer and mouthed, Tell him about the order.

“I’m not throwing you out,” I said. “A judge is.”

Silence. “What?”

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