The cold October rain beat relentlessly against the limestone driveway, soaking the cardboard boxes stacked beside Rachel's worn station wagon.
Rachel wrapped her fingers around the strap of her handbag, her knuckles white as she stared up at the marble columns of the entrance porch.
David: Don't just stand there staring, Rachel. The moving van has two more stops before dark, and Chloe wants that closet empty.
Rachel: You couldn't even give me forty-eight hours, David? Our daughter isn't even home from college yet.
David: Emma is twenty years old. She understands business. And this marriage ceased being a viable partnership months ago.
Rachel: A partnership? Is that what you call twenty-two years of cooking, raising your children, and typing your business plans?
David: You were compensated handsomely with an estate lifestyle most women only see on television screens.
The front door swung open with a muffled click, and Chloe stepped out onto the porch wrapped in a designer cashmere cardigan.
Chloe: David, darling, the hardwood installers are waiting on the phone. They want to know if we want the gray oak in the primary suite.
David: Order the premium imported plank, sweetheart. Whatever makes you happy.
Rachel: You haven't even finalized our divorce decree, David. She shouldn't even have a key to that front door.
Chloe: Oh, honey, don't be bitter. You had your turn at being Mrs. Vance. Now step aside for someone who knows how to represent a billionaire CEO.
Rachel: I worked night shifts at the clinic so he could pay his first commercial warehouse lease!
David: And I paid you back ten times over with luxury cars and country club memberships. Now take your boxes and get off my private property.
Rachel: This isn't just your property, David.
David: The prenup says otherwise. You signed away all real estate equity on our wedding day.
Rachel: You really believe that piece of paper makes you bulletproof, don't you?
David: My corporate lawyers wrote it. You leave with your personal vehicle and a ten-thousand-dollar settlement check.
Rachel’s phone vibrated violently inside her coat pocket, the screen lighting up with a private number from Wall Street.
Rachel: Hold that thought, David. It seems someone is calling about your pending credit facility.
David laughed dismissively, resting his hand on Chloe's shoulder as he turned toward the warm glow of the foyer.
David: Take the call in your car, Rachel. The gate code changes in exactly ten minutes.
Rachel pressed the phone to her ear, listening to the deep, calm voice on the other end of the line, her eyes never leaving her husband's back.
Rachel: Hello, Arthur. Yes, I'm standing outside the house right now. He just handed me the eviction notice.
Arthur: Did he try to enforce the nineteen ninety-nine marital waiver?
Rachel: Word for word. He thinks he owns the foundation under his shoes.
Arthur: Excellent. The emergency board session is set for eight tomorrow morning. Shall I freeze his executive lines now?
Rachel paused, feeling the cold rain slide down her neck as she watched the heavy oak door slam shut in her face.
Rachel: Wait until eight sharp, Arthur. I want him to finish unpacking her luggage first.
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