And when dawn broke, I got up and dressed. When I walked into the kitchen, he was already there, sipping his morning coffee, flipping through a financial report.
He didn’t look up.
“Where’s breakfast?” he asked absently, like I was the maid.
I opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water, and answered without turning around.
“I didn’t cook.”
He looked up, blinking like he didn’t understand. “What?”
“I said,” I repeated, calm and clear, “I didn’t cook. Just eat somewhere else.”
His brow furrowed. “Why not? What’s going on?”
I turned then. Met his eyes head-on.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
He stood up slowly, confusion etched into his face.
“Leaving? Where are you going?”
I smiled. But there was no sweetness left in it. Only frost.
“None of your business.”
I just walked away, and grabbed the keys to the Maybach, and drove straight to the divorce lawyer’s office. The receptionist gave me a look that said you again?, but I ignored her and walked in.
Attorney Rosario was sitting behind his polished mahogany desk. His tie was crisp, his smile tight.
“Mrs. Green,” he greeted carefully. “I received your message. But I’m afraid I can’t—”