My cheating husband slammed the divorce papers down on the $12,000 Italian Carrara marble coffee table so hard the sound cracked through the living room like a gunshot.
I watched his face instead of the documents. Brandon Wilson was trying so hard not to grin that the muscles in his jaw twitched. He straightened his tie like he was closing a deal instead of detonating a marriage.
“I am taking all my personal belongings with me,” I said evenly.
Kylie, his twenty‑four‑year‑old girlfriend, sighed loudly from the corner. She was curled up on my beige Belgian linen sofa, admiring the house that I had built, clueless about what the next forty‑eight hours really held.
Empty houses tell no lies.
