So, the next day, when Arthur used his old excuse of needing to work late, I simply told him in a calm voice to come home and sign the divorce papers.
A chaos of sounds came through the phone, including a woman's gasp.
Within half an hour, the black Maybach pulled up downstairs, and he hurried up to our apartment.
The living room was filled with my packed suitcases.
I sat on the sofa, a printed divorce agreement on the coffee table in front of me, already signed with my name.
Arthur steadied himself and walked over to me. His voice strained as he tried to suppress his panic.
"Avery, what's going on? What is this all of a sudden?"
"All of a sudden?"
I gave him an ugly smile. "Arthur, stop pretending. You can't play with fire and not get burned.
"I've seen everything."
His body shook, and his facade quickly crumbled.
"Avery, please let me explain."
Arthur lunged forward, grabbing my hand, the composure he always maintained now gone.
I calmly withdrew my hand, wiping the spot he touched, and curled my lips into a smirk.
"Alright, go ahead and explain."
How would he explain? I watched the bewildered Arthur with amusement, finding the situation absurd.