Our divorce had been finalized only ninety minutes earlier.
Seven years of marriage, reduced to signatures.
I looked at Ethan. “You could at least carry one suitcase.”
Margaret laughed. “Why? So you can pretend you still belong here?”
That finally made Ethan look at me.
“Claire, please. Don’t start.”
I almost smiled.
He’d used those words for years whenever Margaret insulted me, controlled our finances, entered our bedroom without knocking, or reminded me that I had married “above my station.”
What neither of them knew was that I’d stopped starting fights two years earlier.
Instead, I’d started gathering evidence.
I grabbed my suitcase handle.
Margaret crossed her arms. “And don’t come back tonight.”
“Tonight?”
Her smile widened.
“Oh, Ethan didn’t tell you?”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
Margaret continued. “We’re hosting a celebration. Eight hundred thousand dollars. Caterers, orchestra, imported flowers, the governor’s old event planner. Over a hundred guests.”
