I responded. "Bought myself a divorce present with our emergency fund. Consider it payment for five years of fake marriage and real disappointment."
"You're out of your goddamn mind! Do you know what you've done? I needed that money—"
I ended the call and turned back to the saleswoman.
After finalizing my purchase, I headed straight to Derek's private garage where he kept his collection of luxury cars. The keypad code hadn't changed since I'd last seen him enter it.
Inside sat his most prized possession: a limited-edition Bugatti he'd never even let me touch. The one he'd always promised to take his precious Tara for a ride in someday.
I snapped a picture of myself sitting in the driver's seat and sent it to him with the message: "Permit me to use your prized and treasured possession."
His reply was immediate: "DON'T YOU DARE."
The engine purred to life and I felt a rush of power as I pulled out onto the open road. At every stoplight, I snapped photos and posted them to my social media. Finally getting what I deserve, I captioned them.
By evening I pulled into Giovanni's, the most expensive restaurant in town.