“Mark,” I said carefully, “you’re tired. Let’s sit down.”
He leaned against the marble counter—my counter, the one I’d picked out after saving for three years—and crossed his arms.
“I’ve already talked to a lawyer,” he said. “This house is in my name. The company is in my name. You’ll be compensated… modestly.”
My chest tightened.
“Compensated for what?” I asked. “For twelve years of marriage?”
“For supporting you,” I said quietly. “For writing your proposals. For running your books. For covering payroll when your account hit zero.”
His smile faded.
“That was practice,” he snapped. “This is real business.”
I stared at him, seeing a stranger wearing my husband’s face.
“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” I asked.
He didn’t deny it.
“She understands the world I’m in now,” he said. “You’re… outdated.”
Outdated.
Like a phone model.
Like a piece of furniture.
I felt my knees weaken, but I refused to sit.
“When do you want me gone?” I asked.
“Tonight would be easiest,” he said. “Before the press starts calling.”
I left with one suitcase.
No jewelry. No documents. No photos.
Just clothes and my laptop.
As I stepped onto the porch, I turned back.
“You wouldn’t have that deal without me,” I said.