Three days after my father-in-law’s funeral, my husband asked for a divorce in the very study where I had spent seven years holding his life together.
He didn’t even bother to act remorseful.
Nathan stood beside the mahogany desk his father, Charles Whitmore, had once used to oversee a private investment empire worth hundreds of millions. Rain streaked the tall windows, blurring the outside world, and the house still carried the heavy scent of funeral lilies. I wore one of Charles’s old cashmere cardigans, partly because the mansion was always too cold, and partly because, unlike his son, Charles had paid attention when someone was uncomfortable.
Nathan straightened his cufflinks and said, “Let’s not make this uglier than it needs to be. You were useful when I had nothing. That phase is over.”
I stared at him, convinced I must have misheard.
