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!”

Naomi handed the phone back to me.

I didn’t gloat. I didn’t raise my voice.

I said quietly, “You don’t get to call me a bitch and then call me when you realize I’m the one holding the leash.”

His breath hitched.

Then, weaker: “I didn’t know.”

My eyes drifted to the hospital bracelet still resting on the nightstand—the proof of battles my body had fought while he mocked me.

“You didn’t know because you never asked,” I said. “You assumed.”

Another pause.

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