Nina pulled the robe closed, embarrassed for exactly one second… then annoyed.
Alexander stood, buttoning his shirt.
“You’ve been impossible for months,” he said. “Everything is drama now. The crying. The exhaustion. The neediness. I’m done pretending.”
I stood there holding the baby monitor like an idiot.
“Pretending what?”
“That this marriage works.”
That was how it ended.
Not with fire.
With boredom.
The divorce moved fast—too fast. Like it had already been written.
His family brought in elite attorneys from Chicago. Not lawyers—architects of destruction.
Documents appeared. Accounts shifted. Assets vanished into structures I didn’t understand.
His mother claimed heirlooms I had never touched. His father spoke once through a lawyer and never again.
My attorney did what she could.
“They’ve been preparing for war longer than you’ve known there was one,” she told me.
She was right.
By the end, I had almost nothing.
He kept everything.
The house. The cars. The accounts. The furniture. Even gifts he once insisted were mine.
What they left me was barely a settlement—then they drained even that with delays and fees.
Every time I pushed back, another document surfaced.
Another clause.