Carter spent eight years reminding me that every comfortable thing in our marriage came from him. At a family dinner, he put divorce papers beside my plate and challenged me to see how long I could manage without his money while his mother laughed. I signed in front of all of them. Before I was out of the restaurant, my attorney texted me one detail Carter clearly had not expected to matter: he had filed first, and Clause 14 was now active.

“You’re twisting my words.”

“No. I’m going to let the attorneys handle this.”

Patricia exhaled sharply.

“Do you really think you can afford to fight him?”

For years, that question might have worked.

That morning, it only made me tired.

“I think Carter and I are getting divorced.”

Then I ended the call.

The independent accounting process began soon afterward.

It was less dramatic than Carter had feared and far more thorough than he had expected.

There were requests for records.

Statements.

Ownership documents.

Valuations.

Tax information.

Account histories.

Documents related to Hale Development.

Documents related to the house.

Information about investments.

Nothing about it resembled the scene at Maison Verre.

Nobody laughed.

Nobody announced that one person deserved everything.

Nobody cared who had paid for dinner.

The process dealt in records.

That alone changed the emotional balance.

Carter had spent years turning money into storytelling.

He earned more.