The weeks that followed were harsh and practical, filled with searching for a small apartment, signing paperwork, and receiving divorce documents that arrived with unsettling speed.
Connor wanted everything finalized quickly, as if erasing me from his life was just another task on his schedule.
Three weeks later, I received a call from an attorney requesting my presence at the reading of Harold’s will, and I could not understand why I would be required to attend.
Connor later called me with irritation in his voice and said, “Just show up, sign whatever they give you, and do not create unnecessary drama.”
On the morning of the reading, I wore a simple navy dress and the pearl earrings Harold once complimented, because they felt like the only piece of strength I had left.
When I entered the conference room, Connor was already seated confidently with his advisors, and he glanced at me with open disdain.
“Sit in the back and do not speak unless addressed,” he said coldly, and I obeyed without responding, choosing instead to observe everything quietly.
The attorney began reading the will, confirming that Connor would inherit the mansion, the cars, and the seventy five million dollars.