He laughed while signing the divorce papers, thinking I was a penniless nobody. But he froze when the judge opened a sealed envelope, revealing my trillion-dollar secret, turning his victory into a nightmare that would destroy his entire life forever. He signed the papers and tilted his pen like he had just won a lottery ticket, mocking me right in front of the judge. But then the clerk placed a sealed black envelope on the bench. When the judge opened it, her voice faltered as she stared at a number that did not belong in reality. He thought this divorce was his victory. He had no idea he was about to become the punchline.
My name is Chloe Harris, and for the last three years, I have been invisible in my own home.
The rain was hammering against the single-pane window of our third-floor walk-up in South Baltimore, a relentless gray rhythm that matched the peeling paint on the sill. It was 7:30 in the morning on a Tuesday, the kind of morning that felt damp even indoors. The radiator hissed and clanked in the corner, fighting a losing battle against the November chill. But Caleb did not seem to feel the cold. He was standing in front of the microwave, using the dark reflective glass as a mirror to adjust his tie. It was a silk tie, a deep crimson shade that he had bought two weeks ago, claiming it was an investment for his image. He smoothed the knot, tilted his chin up, and checked his teeth. He looked like a man preparing for a photo shoot, entirely out of place in a kitchen where the linoleum was curling at the edges and the air always smelled faintly of stale coffee and old drywall.
He did not look at me. He had stopped really looking at me months ago. To him, I was just part of the furniture, another worn-out thing in this apartment that he was desperate to leave behind.
“I need this done today, Chloe,” he said, his voice flat. He turned from the microwave and picked up the thick manila envelope sitting on the laminate counter. He tossed it onto the small dining table where I sat nursing a mug of lukewarm tea. The envelope slid across the surface and stopped inches from my hand. “Sign it,” he said, a smirk touching the corner of his mouth. “You have leeched off me long enough.”
I looked at the envelope. I did not need to open it to know what the legal jargon inside said. We had been dancing around this for weeks, ever since he landed the energetic settlement case that put his name on the partner tracklist at the firm. Success had not made him generous; it had made him cruel. It had given him the confidence to discard the things he thought were weighing him down. I set my mug down. My hand was steady. I looked up at him, taking in the sharp cut of his suit, the way he held himself with a new, artificial posture. He was handsome in a conventional way, the kind of face that trusted it would be forgiven for its flaws. But I saw the tension in his jaw. I saw the insecurity he tried to bury under expensive cologne and aggressive ambition.
“Do you have a pen?” I asked softly.
He huffed, an exaggerated sound of annoyance, and patted his pockets. He pulled out a sleek silver fountain pen—another recent purchase—and dropped it onto the papers. “Make it quick. I have a strategy meeting at nine, and I do not have time to babysit your emotions.”
I uncapped the pen. The nib was gold, sharp, and precise. I opened the document to the last page, skipping the paragraphs detailing the assets we did not have and the debts he claimed were mutual. I found the line marked for my signature. I did not cry. I did not ask him why. I did not remind him of the nights I stayed up helping him organize his case files when he was an overwhelmed associate, or the months I covered the rent with my meager administrative salary so he could pay his bar association fees. None of that mattered to the man standing in front of me. I pressed the pen to the paper: Chloe Harris. The ink flowed smoothly, dark and permanent.
Caleb watched me, and I could feel his disappointment. He wanted a scene. He wanted me to plead, to throw things, to give him a reason to call me crazy. He needed to be the victim of a clingy, irrational wife so that his narrative would be complete. My silence robbed him of that satisfaction. He pulled his phone out of his pocket while I signed the duplicate copy. The screen lit up, reflecting on his face. His expression softened instantly, shifting from contempt to a greasy sort of charm. I knew who was on the other end of that message: Madison Price. She was twenty-four, a paralegal at his firm with bright eyes and an eagerness to be close to power, or even the illusion of it.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
