Chapter 8
The words tasted like cold, crisp water.
I hadn’t even practiced them, but once they left my mouth, they felt absolute.
“My lawyer will be in touch with yours by Monday. As for Leo, I’ll be seeking shared custody, but he’ll have to spend his summers and holidays here in Ardencraft. I’m not giving up my business.”
David let out a harsh, barking laugh.
“Your business? You’re selling cupcakes. I pay the mortgage. I pay for Leo’s school. You have nothing without me. Do you honestly think a judge is going to give you custody when you ran out on your five-year-old son?”
“I didn’t run out. I left him with his capable father and his brilliant aunt, who he specifically requested over me.”
My voice was calm, still as dead water.
“And I have all the text messages and videos you sent, proving that you willingly took over his care while actively alienating me from him. My lawyer found them quite fascinating.”
The color drained from David’s face.
“You’re sick,” he whispered. “You’re actually insane. Fine. You want to play hardball? We’ll play. Let’s see how long this little bakery lasts when I freeze our joint accounts.”
“They were emptied yesterday. My half, legally. The rest is yours.”
He stared at me. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
For the first time in our decade-long relationship, I had rendered him speechless.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out, the little brass bell above the door rattling violently behind him.
I stood there for a moment, listening to the roar of his engine as he sped away.
Then I went back to wiping the counter.
Sadi emerged from the kitchen.
She didn’t offer pity. She didn’t ask whether I was okay.
She simply bumped her shoulder against mine.
“The strawberry glaze needs whisking. You want to take your anger out on that, or should I?”
“I’m not angry,” I said.
And to my profound relief, it was the truth.
“But I’ll whisk it anyway.”
The first six months of the divorce were a war of attrition.
David, true to form, tried to bury me in legal paperwork. He contested everything, from the division of the house to the ownership of the espresso machine we had received as a wedding gift. He demanded full custody of Leo, citing my “unstable departure” and claiming my bakery was a hobby that could never sustain a child.
But David had severely underestimated me.
For seven years, I had managed every cent that flowed through our household. I knew where his bonuses went. I knew about the expensive dinners he had written off as business expenses when he was really taking Rosalie out.
I handed my lawyer, a shark of a woman named Ms. Vance, a neatly organized binder that mapped out David’s financial infidelity in exquisite detail.