The sound of the suitcase zipper cutting through the silence felt louder than it should have. Naomi Bennett stood in the middle of her kitchen, the marble countertops gleaming under the pendant lights, and looked at the man she’d called her husband for eight years. Donovan leaned against the island, arms crossed, that insufferable smirk playing on his lips.
He wore a gray suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent, his watch catching the light every time he moved his wrist. Everything about him screamed money, power, control. “So you’re really doing this?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement.
“You’re really going to walk out?”
Naomi’s hands were steady as she placed her house keys on the counter. The metal clinked against the marble, a sound of finality. “Yes.”
He laughed—actually laughed.
“Go ahead. Leave. I give you a week without me, maybe less.
Where are you going to go, Naomi? What are you going to do? You haven’t worked in years.
You’ve been living off my money in my house, driving my cars.”
Naomi said nothing. She just pulled her phone from her purse and checked the time. 11:47 p.m.
In thirteen minutes, it would be a new day. A new beginning. “You think you can make it out there alone?” Donovan continued, pushing off the counter and walking toward her.
“You think anyone is going to hire a woman who hasn’t practiced law in eight years? You think you can afford an apartment in this city on your own?”
Naomi looked at him—then really looked at him. She’d once thought he was handsome.
Now she saw the cruelty in his eyes, the arrogance in his stance. She saw the man who’d been sleeping with Simone Clark from his accounting department for the past three years. The man who’d taken Simone out to expensive dinners while Naomi waited at home.
The man who’d given her jewelry that Naomi had helped pay for through her own family inheritance. “I’ll manage,” she said quietly. “You’ll manage.” He mimicked her tone, then shook his head.
“You’ll come crawling back. They always do. Women like you—you’re not built for the real world.
You’re built for this.”
He gestured around the kitchen: the custom cabinets, the professional-grade appliances, the chandelier in the dining room visible through the doorway. Naomi picked up her suitcase. She’d packed light—one bag with clothes, toiletries, important documents.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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