“You promised me this was handled,” she hissed. “You said the old man was a pushover. You idiot.”

Ethan reached for her. “Ash, wait, we can fix this—”

She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me. I have zero interest in being married to a bankrupt fraud.” She spun on her heel, boots clicking furiously across the hardwood, and stormed out, leaving her half-empty glass of my vintage wine on the entryway table.

I looked at my son. He was breathing heavily, tears welling.

“Dad,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Dad, please. You’re destroying my life.”

I walked around the desk. I didn’t feel triumph. I didn’t feel joy. I just felt an overwhelming, bone-deep exhaustion.