Two hundred thousand. I felt dizzy.
“He’s been planning this divorce for a while,” Mr. Chen continued, “hiding marital assets, creating a paper trail that makes it look like he has far less than he actually does.”
“When you sign those divorce papers, you’ll be signing away your right to money that’s legally half yours.”
“Can we prove this?” My voice sounded strange, distant.
“We can. But Mrs. Patterson, if we expose this, we’re not just talking about divorce court. This is fraud, potentially criminal fraud. Your husband could face serious consequences. Are you prepared for that?”
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 two hundred thousand dollars 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 forty-three 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 thirty-five like Jennifer had guessed, but maybe forty. 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.”