The day I was appointed director, my husband gave me a cruel smile: “I don’t care about your career! My mother and sister are moving out tomorrow, and you’re going to be serving them.” I didn’t reply, I just smiled. But when he returned with them, he opened the front door and was shocked. “What the hell did you do?” he yelled at me. Without flinching, I answered: “Nothing… except put everyone back in their rightful place.” That night, his world crumbled.

At the first light of dawn, Wesley drove off to collect his relatives, and the moment his car cleared the driveway, I picked up the phone to call my attorney, Sabrina Vance. I then contacted the landlord of our luxury apartment, a place I had been funding almost entirely with my own salary for the past two years, and arranged for an express moving crew to arrive immediately.

By the middle of the afternoon, the penthouse looked nothing like the home Wesley had left behind because every single one of his items had been inventoried and packed into boxes. With the landlord’s full legal permission, I had the main locks replaced, and I left a single blue folder on the entryway table containing copies of our bank records and a short note.

The note simply stated that anything that cannot be discussed with mutual respect will eventually be resolved through decisive action. Around eight in the evening, I heard the elevator chime in the hallway, followed by Beulah’s loud complaints and Gwen’s high-pitched laughter as they approached the door.