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While my husband slides a manila envelope with divorce papers across our kitchen island on the morning of my 35th birthday, I'm mentally reviewing the documents that will transfer ownership of his tech company to me—the same company I helped build while he was busy having an affair with his assistant. As he pours himself a celebratory whiskey at 10 AM, I'm calculating exactly how long it will take his smug smile to disappear when he discovers that his "helpless homebody wife" has been three steps ahead of him for months. He thinks I'll break down crying when he tells me he's leaving; instead, I'll be breaking the news that the business evaluation meeting he's scheduled for next week will have a very different outcome than he expects. Before we jump back in, tell us where you're tuning in from, and if this story touches you, make sure you're subscribed—because tomorrow, I've saved something extra special for you! My hands remain steady as I accept the envelope, a practiced smile masking the calculations running through my mind. Through our kitchen window, I can see the delivery truck dropping off the designer watch I ordered for David's birthday next month—a watch he'll never receive, much like the love and loyalty he promised me ten years ago at our wedding. The irony isn't lost on me that the same hands that once placed a ring on my finger are now pushing divorce papers toward me, wrapped in false sympathy and impatience. "Emma," David says, checking his Rolex—the one I gave him on our fifth anniversary, "I think it's best if we handle this quickly and quietly. The papers are straightforward." I take a slow sip of my coffee, the ceramic mug hiding my smile. If only he knew how many nights I've spent in our home office after he'd claimed to be "working late," studying business documents, legal precedents, and the operating agreement he thought I'd never understand. "On my birthday, David? Really?" I keep my voice soft, vulnerable—exactly what he expects. He has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, running his hand through his expensively cut hair. "I didn't plan it this way. But now that Martin has prepared everything, there's no reason to drag this out. You'll be provided for, of course." Martin. His lawyer and golf buddy. The same man who drafted our company's operating agreement five years ago, the one with the loophole David never noticed—the one that gives a co-founder majority control if the other founder engages in provable ethics violations against the company. I nod demurely, playing the role he's always cast me in: the former marketing executive who gave up her career to support his dreams, the wife who doesn't understand the complexities of business, the woman who focuses on making their Craftsman home in Seattle's Queen Anne neighborhood look perfect for his business dinners. "Could I at least have today? To process this?" I ask, eyes downcast. "Maybe we could talk about it tomorrow?" David checks his phone—probably a message from Rebecca, his twenty-eight-year-old assistant whose perfume I first noticed on his shirts four months ago. The same Rebecca whose "business trips" with David coincided perfectly with the charges for two at intimate restaurants and boutique hotels that appeared on our joint credit card. "Fine. One day, Emma. But I have a meeting with investors tomorrow morning, so we'll need to handle this in the evening." He grabs his keys from the counter. "I'll stay at the Chambers Hotel tonight. Don't try to call me—I need space." As if on cue, his phone buzzes again. He glances at it, and I catch the slight smile before he schools his features back into solemn regret. "Space. Of course," I murmur. After he leaves, the house falls silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in our entryway—a wedding gift from my parents. I wait exactly five minutes before pulling out my own phone and texting Jessica, my best friend from college and now my attorney: "He delivered the papers. Exactly as we predicted. Moving to phase two."