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!”

Three days later, he called in full-blown panic.

His voice shook, unrecognizable, stripped of the arrogance that had once fueled his screams. “We need to talk! Now!” he blurted.

From the hotel suite, I leaned back in my chair and smiled calmly. Every second I delayed only weakened him. “No,” I replied simply.

“They opened the safe deposit box… and there are documents that could… change everything,” he rushed, breathless.

My pulse quickened, but my expression stayed composed. Trent was finally learning what it meant to underestimate me. “What… what documents?” he stammered.

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