That ended everything.
The divorce was ugly.
Brandon demanded more than he was entitled to.
He questioned my business valuation.
Accused me of hiding assets.
And acted personally offended when my attorneys insisted that the company I’d established before our marriage wasn’t automatically his personal property.
Eventually, we reached a settlement.
The judge finalized it on a rainy Thursday afternoon in downtown Chicago.
I thought the worst was over.
I was wrong.
Outside the courthouse, Brandon walked past me with Savannah holding his arm.
He stopped.
Smiled.
Then delivered one final insult.
“Don’t cry too hard, Elena. Some women just don’t know how to keep a man.”
Savannah laughed.
My face burned.
I didn’t answer.
My father did.
“Open every banking app you have.”
I looked at him.
“Dad—”
“Now.”
His tone startled me.
Dominic Rossi was seventy years old.
Retired.
Silver-haired.
The sort of man who preferred crossword puzzles, black coffee, and quiet conversations.
