I cried while driving my husband to the airport because he said he was going to “work in Canada for two years” — but when I got home, I transferred the $720,000 to my account and filed for divorce.

There was a brief pause. “Understood, Mrs. Carter. I’ll handle everything.”

Two hours later, my phone rang.

Daniel.

Right on schedule.

I imagined him in that pristine penthouse kitchen, probably trying to order champagne or pay a deposit for baby furniture.

I answered sweetly.

“Hi, love. Did you land in London safely?”

“EMMA!” His voice was sharp with panic. “What happened to our account? My card was declined! It says there’s no money!”

I leaned back in my chair and took a slow sip of red wine.

“Oh. That. I transferred it.”

“You did WHAT? Where is it?! Emma, that’s our money!”

“No,” I corrected calmly. “It’s my inheritance. And I’ve decided to keep it.”

Silence. Then his breathing, heavy and uneven.

“I—I don’t understand.”

“I know you’re not in London,” I said. “I know about the penthouse in Miami. And I know about Olivia. Congratulations, by the way.”

He went quiet.

“Emma, I can explain—”

“There’s nothing left to explain. The man I married would never have done this. The tears you saw at the airport were real. They were for the version of you I thought existed.”

“Please,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “I don’t have access to anything now. How am I supposed to take care of them?”