“No,” I said calmly. “A mistake is forgetting an anniversary. This was a strategy.”
Megan began to cry — real tears now. “He told me you were cold. That you didn’t love him.”
I felt an unexpected flicker of sadness. Not for them — for the years I had spent believing loyalty was enough.
“I loved him,” I said quietly. “But love doesn’t mean blindness.”
I stepped back toward my car.
“Security will escort you to collect personal belongings,” I added. “After that, any communication goes through my attorney.”
Andrew stood frozen, his empire evaporating in real time.
I got into my car and closed the door.
For a second, the weight of it all pressed against my chest — five years of marriage, countless dinners, shared plans, promises whispered at night.
Then I exhaled.
My phone buzzed again.
A notification from the bank: joint accounts officially closed.
Another from legal: petition accepted by the court.
I rested my head briefly against the seat.
He had thought I would cry. Beg. Negotiate.
Instead, I calculated.