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!”

Trent was waiting in the living room. A manila envelope lay on the coffee table beside a glass of bourbon, like a celebration prop. He scanned me from head to toe, his expression tightening when he noticed the bracelet. Then he smiled with contempt, as if I had contaminated his space. “Hey,” he barked, “sick bitch!”

I stopped cold.

He drummed two fingers on the envelope. “I’ve already filed the divorce papers,” he declared. “Get out of my house tomorrow.”

Something inside me went eerily quiet, like my mind had flipped a switch. “Tomorrow?” I echoed.

Trent shrugged. “It’s my house,” he said flatly. “My name’s on the deed. You don’t contribute. You’re… dead weight.”

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