“I’m explaining reality.”
The orthopedic surgeon had told me I needed a procedure the next morning.
Flynn knew.
He also knew I was concussed, medicated, frightened, and isolated.
Or he thought I was.
“You’ll leave me without insurance.”
“Sign, and everything remains covered through recovery.”
I let tears fill my eyes.
Not difficult.
There was enough pain to draw from.
“I loved you.”
Flynn exhaled.
“Sloan…”
“I loved you.”
“I know.”
“You’re taking my home.”
“You don’t need it.”
“My grandfather—”
“Your grandfather is dead.”
That sentence did something miraculous.
It killed the last surviving piece of my marriage.
I began to cry harder.
Flynn relaxed.
He thought he saw defeat.
That was the advantage of being underestimated.
I picked up the pen.
“Where?”
Flynn’s eyes brightened.
The lawyer flipped pages.
“Initial here.
Here.
Signature there.”
I signed the divorce acknowledgment.
Then the transfer.
Every page.
