The Day I Stopped Being the Nice Wife

Jane Roberts nearly dropped the frying pan she was carrying when her husband's voice cut through the quiet kitchen. "You need to sign these."

Her heart jumped into her throat as she spun around to see Marcus standing in the doorway, holding out a brown envelope like some kind of grim offering. "Jesus, Marcus! You scared the hell out of me." The pan clattered against the stovetop as she steadied it. "What is that?"

No apology. No explanation. Just cold silence as he turned and walked away.

Frying pan still in hand, Jane followed him into the dining room. "Marcus? What's going on?"

He dropped the envelope on the table with a thud that sounded too final. "Divorce papers. My lawyers prepared them last week." He sat down like he was discussing grocery lists. "Just sign them and we're done."

The words hit her like a physical blow. "Did you just say... divorce papers?" Her voice cracked on the last two words.

Marcus arched one eyebrow, his expression dripping with disdain. "Do I need to repeat myself?" Before she could respond, he stood, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out. The front door slammed so hard the walls shook.

Jane stood frozen until the sound of his car engine snapped her back to reality. She ran outside, still clutching the frying pan. "Marcus! You didn't even eat breakfast!" But all she got was a faceful of exhaust as his Mercedes peeled down the driveway.

The envelope sat on the table like a live grenade. Her hands trembled as she picked it up. "This isn't happening," she whispered, but the bold black letters at the top of the document screamed otherwise: DIVORCE SETTLEMENT.

The papers slipped from her fingers as her legs gave out. Hot tears blurred her vision. Two years of marriage. Two years of loving him. And this was how it ended? With cold paperwork and a slammed door?

"No." She wiped her face with the back of her hand and forced herself to stand. "I'm not signing this." The frying pan felt heavy in her hand—a ridiculous weapon against the hurricane of emotions tearing through her. "He doesn't get to do this."

The doorbell rang just as she stepped out of the shower. Jane tightened her robe and hurried downstairs, still rubbing a towel through her damp hair. "Coming!"

Through the peephole, a stranger stared back—a broad-shouldered man in a work shirt. Her pulse spiked. She wasn't expecting anyone. Maybe Marcus sent him?

Three unanswered calls to Marcus later, the doorbell rang again, more insistent this time. Jane cracked the door open just enough to speak. "Can I help you?"

The man—Mark, he said—smiled like this was a normal social call. "Mr. Dreame sent me and my team." He gestured to a van in the driveway where another man sat watching.

Ice water flooded Jane's veins. "For what?"

"To help you pack." Mark shifted uncomfortably under her stare. "He said you'd be leaving today."

The world tilted. "That's impossible. Call him. Right now."

Mark obliged, putting the call on speaker. Marcus's voice came through crisp and clear: "Is it done? Have you kicked the bitch out yet?"

The words hit like a slap. Jane stumbled back inside, the walls closing in around her. Bitch? After everything? She collapsed onto the couch, tears coming in waves now—great, heaving sobs that shook her entire body.