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On the way to the celebration for my solo design exhibition, my husband, Harrison, received a call. A woman's voice filled the car, piped through the Bluetooth system. "I'm back. And I'm ready to take what's mine." Harrison didn't respond. His jaw clenched as he wordlessly stabbed the end-call button. I took it as a clear rejection. Until late that night, when his lawyer delivered the divorce papers. Staring into the impenetrable depths of his gray eyes, I calmly signed my name. "Do I need to move out tonight?" I asked. He must have expected arguments or hysterics, because a rare flicker of surprise crossed his cold, ascetic face. His Adam's apple bobbed. "No need," he said, his voice low. "This Manhattan penthouse will be transferred to your name tomorrow." I offered him a brittle smile and nodded. Harrison didn't know that for a man with his intense need for control, me walking away with his money—calmly and without a single tear—was the ultimate act of war. ———————— 1 I glanced at Harrison’s chiseled profile. "It's late," I said softly. "You should get some rest. Don't you have a board meeting tomorrow? I'll take the guest room." With that, I stood to leave. As I passed him, he shot out a hand, his grip like an iron clamp on my wrist. The heat from his palm sent a jolt through my skin. His brow was furrowed, his thin lips pressed into a hard line, as if he were wrestling with confusion, or perhaps suppressing a violent rage. He demanded, "Avery, why aren't you fighting me on this?" "And if I did? Would you call off the divorce? Or does the great CEO of the Hawthorne Group get off on watching women grovel at his feet?" Harrison stiffened, his deep gray eyes boring into me. Finally, he said in a low voice, "I'm sorry. I'll compensate you." I turned my head just enough to reveal the tell-tale redness in my eyes. "Okay," I whispered. "I believe you." The living room lights stayed on all night. The next day, when we went to the courthouse to form
