He kept everything that mattered: the house, the lakeside cabin his father had “given us” but never legally shared, and the shares in the company I’d helped build from the ground up. Years of accounting, payroll, and operations management meant nothing on paper. All I left with was a small settlement, temporary child support, and my old SUV.
His lawyer called it “documented property.”
How curious that documentation only seems to matter when one person has been planning the end longer than the other.
When I left the courthouse, I saw them gathered in the parking lot.
Grant loosened his tie. Sabrina linked her arm with his. His mother kissed his cheek. His brother laughed loudly, celebrating as if it were the beginning of a new life.
Grant looked at me, not with guilt, not even with discomfort. Just with relief.
He raised his car keys as if in a toast.
I turned away.
Owen looked up at me.
“Shall we go home?”
I swallowed.
“Let’s go somewhere safe.”
Behind us, a champagne bottle exploded. They were celebrating. Right there in the courthouse parking lot.
Then Grant’s phone rang.
At first, he answered it casually. But in a matter of seconds, everything changed. His smile vanished. His posture tensed.
“What do you mean?” he said. At first, I kept walking, thinking it would be something minor: a document, a signature, something easily resolved.
Then I heard him say my name.
Cursedly.
