He found none.

“You’re going to regret this, Nora,” he hissed, low and bitter, as he reached the front door.

“You have no income.

You’re on maternity leave.

You cannot afford this house, or this lifestyle, or that baby, without me.

You’ll come crawling back within a month.” And I stood there, holding our sleeping daughter against my chest, and I gave him the last piece of information he was missing, the one that turned his threat to ash.

“Check the folder on the table, Julian,” I said, calmly.