The rain slashed against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse overlooking Manhattan, casting long, sharp shadows across the polished white marble floor.
Sarah adjusted the cuffs of her simple wool coat, her fingers trembling against the cold fabric as she stared at the man sitting behind the walnut desk.
Richard: Sign it, Sarah. Don't make this any uglier than it already has to be.
Sarah: Twenty-two years, Richard. That is what you are reducing to three sheets of paper?
Richard: Twenty-two years of me carrying this family while you played the quiet housewife.
Sarah: I built the foundation of your company when you couldn't even secure a business loan.
Richard: And you were compensated with a luxury lifestyle most people only dream about.
Sarah: A lifestyle? You cheated on me in our own guest house with your executive assistant.
Richard: Chloe understands the pressures of running a multi-billion-dollar enterprise. You just complain about dinner schedules.
A soft knock echoed through the room before the tall oak door swung open, revealing Chloe dressed in an immaculate cream designer dress, holding a leather folder.
Chloe: Excuse me, darling. The private driver is downstairs waiting to escort Mrs. Vance off the premises.
Sarah: You didn't even have the decency to wait until my suitcase was packed, Chloe?
Chloe: Security packed your essentials, Sarah. We didn't want you lingering and causing a scene for the domestic staff.
Richard: Take the settlement offer on page four. It gives you the suburban condo and half a million cash.
Sarah: The estate is worth nearly eighty million, Richard. The offshore logistics division alone clears thirty million annually.
Richard: And every single asset is shielded under the prenup you signed in nineteen ninety-eight.
Sarah: You really think that old document makes you invincible, don't you?
Richard: My divorce lawyer reviewed it yesterday. You leave with what I decide to give you, or you leave with nothing.
Sarah: Then I will take my suitcase and leave right now.
Richard: Good. Don't call my private line again.
Sarah took a deep breath, picked up her single leather bag, and looked her husband dead in the eyes before turning toward the elevator.
Sarah: Check your company inbox at nine tomorrow morning, Richard. You might find out who actually owns the ground you stand on.
Leave a Comment