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!”

Behind him, the TV blared a cheerful Christmas commercial—laughing families, artificial warmth—while my marriage quietly shattered.

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t cry. I didn’t plead.

Instead, I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and drank it slowly right in front of him, wanting him to see that my hands weren’t trembling.

Then I said, “Understood.”

Trent paused, clearly unsettled by my composure. “Good,” he replied at last, pleased. “And don’t get any ideas. I’ve talked to my lawyer. You’ll get exactly what you deserve.”

I nodded once. “Sure.”

That night, I slept in the guest room. I didn’t pack a bag. I didn’t spiral.

I made three phone calls instead.

My attorney, Naomi Park.

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