“Sign the papers or get out.” My husband’s voice was flat, almost bored, as he delivered the ultimatum from behind my mahogany desk—the desk that had belonged to my grandmother, positioned in the home office of the house she’d left me, in a life I’d built entirely on my own before Stuart Wilson ever existed in my world. He sat in my leather executive chair with his silk robe hanging open over a t-shirt, bare feet propped on the edge of the polished wood, looking for all the world like a man who owned the place.
The irony would have been funny if it weren’t so enraging.
It was seven o’clock on a Thursday morning in my home office on the outskirts of an affluent Florida suburb, the early sun slipping through white plantation shutters and cutting the carpet into long bars of light. I was still in my running clothes—black leggings and a moisture-wicking jacket—hair pulled back in a ponytail, thinking I’d grab coffee and answer a few emails before showering. Instead, I’d walked into what could only be described as an ambush.
“You cannot be serious, Stuart,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
I wasn’t afraid. I was genuinely stunned by the sheer audacity.
Stuart leaned back in my chair, lacing his fingers behind his head like he was posing for a men’s lifestyle magazine spread. He was fifty-two years old, with distinguished salt-and-pepper hair that I’d once found attractive, wearing the expensive silk robe I’d bought him last Christmas because he’d complained his old one was “embarrassing” when guests visited.
“I am completely serious, Meredith,” he replied. “Marriage is a partnership. Fifty-fifty. But since you’ve been so difficult about supporting my business ventures and respecting my role in this household, it’s time we restructured our arrangement.”
He tapped a stack of papers sitting on the desk between us.
“This is a postnuptial agreement,” he continued, his tone taking on the patronizing quality of someone explaining something simple to someone slow. “It grants me title to this house and a fifty-percent controlling interest in your design firm. It’s only fair, considering the emotional support and stability I’ve provided you over these past four years.”
I almost laughed out loud. Emotional support. This was the same man who’d forgotten my birthday three consecutive years, who’d called my company—a multimillion-dollar interior design firm that employed eighteen people—a “cute little hobby,” who’d spent the last four years systematically draining my bank accounts while contributing exactly nothing to our household expenses.
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