I thought about the woman at Richard’s office party touching his arm. The cologne, the late nights. Forty-three years of my life he was trying to erase.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m prepared.”
That night, Richard came home late, smelling of perfume that wasn’t mine. He found me in the living room, the divorce papers on the coffee table.
“Finally ready to sign?” he asked, actually smiling.
I looked up at him, this stranger wearing my husband’s face, and smiled back.
“Actually,” I said sweetly, “I have a few questions first about Meridian Consulting.”
The color drained from his face.
“How do you—”
He stopped, regrouped.
“That’s just a small business venture. Nothing to do with the divorce.”
“Isn’t it?” I kept my voice light, innocent. “Because it seems like quite a lot of our money has been going there lately.”
Richard’s mask slipped. For just a moment, I saw fear flash across his face. Then anger replaced it.
“You’ve been snooping.” His voice was hard now, threatening. “Going through my private papers.”
“Our papers,” I corrected gently. “We’re still married, Richard. Community-property state, remember?”
He took a step toward me, and I forced myself not to flinch.
“Margaret,” he said, “you’re making a mistake. A big one. Sign the papers. Take the deal I’m offering. Don’t make this ugly.”
“Or what?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.
The war had begun.
The next morning, I filed for divorce myself, not with Richard’s terms, but with my own attorney, a sharp woman named Patricia Holloway, who specialized in high-asset divorces. When the papers were served to Richard at his office, I was at Mr. Chen’s office signing documents that would freeze all joint accounts and file formal complaints about the Meridian Consulting irregularities.
Richard came home that evening like a thunderstorm. He didn’t knock, didn’t call out, just slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted, storming into the kitchen where I was calmly preparing dinner.
“Making myself a salad,” I said. “Would you like one?”
“Don’t play games with me, Margaret.” His face was red, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “You froze the accounts. You filed complaints with my firm. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I have every idea.”
I set down my knife and turned to face him.
“I’ve protected what’s legally mine. What’s legally ours.”
“There is no ours anymore.” He was shouting now, completely out of control. “I’m divorcing you. Those accounts, that money, it’s mine. I earned it.”
“We’ll let the court decide that.”
For a moment, I thought he might actually hit me, his fist clenched, his whole body trembling with rage. But he caught himself, took a step back.
“You’re going to regret this,” he said, his voice dropping to something quieter and far more dangerous. “I have lawyers, Margaret. Good ones. They’ll tie you up in court for years. You’ll spend every penny you have fighting me, and you’ll still lose.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe the court will be very interested in where $200,000 of marital assets disappeared to.”
His eyes widened.
“You can’t prove anything.”
“Can’t I?” I smiled. “Richard, I’ve been managing household finances for 43 years. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the patterns, the transfers, the fake consulting company?”
Before he could respond, the doorbell rang.
Richard’s head snapped toward the sound.
“Expecting someone?” I asked innocently.
I already knew who it was. I’d seen her car pull up, a red BMW, flashy and new.
When Richard didn’t move, I walked to the door and opened it myself.
She was younger than I’d expected. Not 35, like Jennifer had guessed, but maybe 40. Blonde, carefully made up, wearing a dress that cost more than my monthly grocery budget. She looked at me with something between pity and contempt.
“You must be Margaret,” she said. “I’m Vanessa Caldwell, Richard’s friend.”
“Friend,” I repeated. “How nice. Please come in. I was just making dinner. There’s plenty.”
Vanessa looked past me to Richard, confusion crossing her face. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Clearly, the wronged wife was supposed to cry, to scream, to fall apart.
“Margaret,” Richard started, but I cut him off.
“No, no. Let her in. I think it’s time we all had a talk, don’t you?”
Vanessa stepped inside, her heels clicking on the hardwood I’d polished just yesterday. She moved to Richard’s side, territorial, marking her claim.
“Richard told me you were being difficult about the divorce,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “I wanted to come here woman to woman and help you understand. This is for the best. You and Richard have grown apart. Surely you can see that.”
“What I can see,” I said calmly, “is that my husband has been embezzling money from his firm and hiding marital assets to fund his midlife crisis. What I can see is that you’re complicit in fraud. The question is, did you know about the financial crimes, or were you just enjoying the expensive dinners and jewelry?”
Vanessa’s face went white.
“What? I don’t—”
“The necklace you’re wearing,” I continued. “Cartier, if I’m not mistaken, purchased four months ago with money from Meridian Consulting, which is funded with money Richard stole from our marriage and possibly from his employer. That makes you technically in possession of stolen property.”
“You’re insane,” Vanessa hissed.
But her hand went to her throat, touching the diamonds there.
“Am I? We’ll see what the authorities say.”
