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!”

He laughed. “With what authority? You don’t have any.”

I nearly smiled.

Because I did.

I just hadn’t used it on him yet.

Three days later, I was seated in a hotel suite across town, signing paperwork with Naomi, when my phone lit up with Trent’s name.

His voice was unrecognizable.

Thin. Frantic.

“Listen,” he blurted, “we need to talk. Now.”

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