But because, for the first time in years, I finally understood that what I had been calling “home” was nothing more than a beautifully decorated illusion.
I stayed at the office.
The lights were off, the building nearly empty, and outside the glass walls, Los Angeles shimmered like it always did—alive, glowing, indifferent. Cars moved. People laughed somewhere far below. Life went on.
As if mine hadn’t just split in two.
I sat there in silence for a long time, my reflection faintly staring back at me from the dark window. I expected tears. I expected anger. I expected something loud, something uncontrollable.
But nothing came.
Just clarity.
A cold, steady kind of clarity I hadn’t felt in years.
I opened my laptop.
If there was one thing I knew how to do when everything else fell apart, it was this—organize, analyze, act.
I didn’t call a friend. I didn’t call my family.
I didn’t even say his name out loud.
I just started working.
First, the documents.
The deed to the house in Malibu—under my name. Always had been.
The bank accounts—mine.
The investment portfolios—mine.
The companies—mine.
Even Daniel’s car? Registered under one of my corporations.
I scrolled further.