Adeline’s texts were somehow worse because they were so stupid. “I hope you kept your mop and bucket.” “You’ll get nothing in the divorce.” “You really thought a family like ours would let a girl like you take anything?”
I laughed out loud in my marble kitchen. The sheer delusion of people who were already insolvent threatening me with poverty would have been hilarious even if it hadn’t been so sad.
I replied to Prescott with a single thumbs-up emoji. Then I went to my closet, pressed my thumb to the biometric safe hidden behind a wall panel, and removed the prenuptial agreement. The pages were crisp, thick, and cruel. Randolph’s signature slashed across the end in aggressive blue ink. I ran my fingers over it and smiled.
Hours later I was in the office of Graham Albright, one of the nastiest family attorneys in Philadelphia. His office smelled like leather, cedar, and consequences. He wore silver-framed glasses and the kind of suit that said he had never once apologized for winning. He had already printed Prescott’s demand letter by the time I arrived.