He slid a thick sheaf of paper across the polished wood, his movements wide and deliberate. The words Draft Divorce Decree were printed across the top page in clean, black letters.
“The board has already approved the transition plan,” Ethan said, his voice filling the small room with its usual booming confidence. “You will have forty-eight hours to remove your personal items from the main office.”
“We built this foundation to help women navigate their choices,” I said, keeping my hands flat on my lap. “I still have three active cases.”
Ethan did not look at the papers. He leaned back in his leather chair and tapped the face of his watch with one finger, his eyes tracking the second hand.
“At least leave with dignity,” he said. “Your body cannot produce an heir, Claire. The family business needs a legacy, and we both know you cannot provide one.”
The silence in the room felt thick, like the air before a storm. I looked at the signature line on the document, where my name was already typed.
“I will take this to my attorney,” I said.
“There is nothing to negotiate,” Ethan said, leaning forward to close his desk calendar.
“We still have the joint account for the clinic payments,” I said.
Ethan waved his hand dismissively. “That was settled after the third cycle failed. There is no money left in that reserve.”
“I want the receipts,” I said.
Ethan stood up and adjusted his cuffs. “You have no reason to look at those invoices anymore.”
The passenger door of Madison’s blue sedan closed with a solid, expensive thud. The heater blasted warm air that smelled of artificial vanilla and baby formula, fogging the passenger window within seconds.
Madison kept both hands on the steering wheel, her knuckles white against the black leather. She did not look at me as she shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb.
