"Go celebrate with Tara instead," I said coldly. "I'm sure she'll appreciate your efforts more than me."
"Don't start with your insecurities again. I've prepared everything for us to finally consummate this marriage."
"Save your performance. I'm meeting with my lawyer today. Divorce papers will be ready soon."
"Divorce me? You can't—"
"Goodbye Derek." Before he could respond, I ended the call.
I left the house and jumped into my car without looking back. My phone kept buzzing with Derek's calls and messages, but I ignored every single one.
The divorce lawyer's office was quiet when I walked in. I slapped down my ID and marriage certificate, got the paperwork, and filled everything out in record time. The final document awaited only Derek's signature, and then I'd be free of his pathetic obsession with Tara.
When I walked out of that building, I smiled for the first time in months. The sun warmed my face as I breathed in sweet freedom.
I couldn't face going home. Instead, I did something I'd never dared before.
I pulled out my phone and logged into our joint account—the one Derek always controlled.
Five years of marriage, and he'd insisted we maintain one account with both our names on it for emergencies. I'd never touched it, not once.
My fingers traced the raised numbers. According to Derek, there was nearly $3.4 million in there. His rainy-day fund. His security blanket.
Too bad it was about to rain.
I transferred $2.5 million to the children's orphanage where I'd first met him. The same place where he'd fooled me with his fake kindness and warmth.
Next, I drove to Luxury Mannequins, the most exclusive display figure boutique in the city. The saleswoman's jaw dropped when I placed my order.
"You want... how many mannequins?" she stammered.
"Fifty-six," I replied calmly. "And I need them delivered today. I'll pay extra."
The truck was being loaded when Derek finally got through on my phone.
DEREK: "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO WITH MY MONEY?"
I responded. "Bought myself a divorce present with our emergency fund. Consider it payment for five years of fake marriage and real disappointment."
"You're out of your goddamn mind! Do you know what you've done? I needed that money—"
I ended the call and turned back to the saleswoman.