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He glanced at my wristband and smirked.
“Hey,” he said with deliberate cruelty, “you unstable mess.”
I stopped cold.
He tapped the envelope. “I’ve already filed for divorce. Be out of my house by tomorrow.”
Something inside me didn’t shatter—it sharpened.
“Tomorrow?” I repeated.
“It’s my property,” he said casually. “My name’s on the deed. You don’t contribute. You’re just dead weight.”
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