And then, lounging casually against the custom wainscoting of my kitchen archway, was Brooke Miller.
Brooke was a junior art director at Jason’s failing firm. I had met her at three corporate dinners. But today, she wasn’t wearing business casual. She was wearing a vibrant, emerald-green silk robe. My silk robe. The one with my intertwined initials—E.R.C.—monogrammed in gold thread over the breast pocket. She was holding my favorite ceramic mug, taking a slow, deliberate sip of coffee, staring at me with the smug, entitled expression of a conqueror surveying her newly acquired territory.
Jason didn’t offer a greeting. He didn’t flinch at the sight of me. He reached onto the marble counter and picked up a thick, manila envelope. He held it out toward me, the air in the room turning brittle.
“Sign,” he ordered, his voice flat, rehearsed.
I didn’t take it. I lowered my gaze. Through the small, rectangular window cut into the envelope, I could see the bold, black typography. Petition for Absolute Divorce.
