Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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I stare at the text, reading it again even though the words haven't changed, like maybe I missed something the first time. Like there's a version of it that makes sense.
There isn't.
I should've expected this. Everything he's done since I left has had an edge to it, calculated in a way that makes it clear none of this is accidental. Still, I thought he'd wait. Wait until the divorce was final. Until it was official.
I thought he'd do the kind thing.
Chelsea probably didn't want him to wait. She wants the life I had – the nice house, the security, the well-known last name. She thinks she's stepping into something permanent. People always do.
My phone shakes in my grip as I open the browser, fingers moving faster than I can think. I don't read half of what comes up, just skim until I find the confirmation I'm looking for, the one that tells me this isn't allowed.
That he doesn't get to do this.
I copy it. Paste it.
Me: You can't do this. It's not legal. Once you file, you're not allowed to change insurance coverage. That's automatic in New York.
The little typing bubble appears. Disappears. Then comes back.
I stare at it like that somehow matters.
Will: I removed you before I filed. I know the laws, Delaney. Don't try to fight me. You'll lose.
For a second, I just sit there, staring at the screen. Then –
Me: What about the checking account? You can't just take all the money. I won't have anything.
My message sends and the screen goes still.
I look out at the street, at nothing in particular, counting seconds without meaning to. Five. Ten. Thirty. A minute.
Ten whole minutes later, my phone lights up.
Will: Not my problem.
A sudden, sharp sensation moves through me, quick and hot. Tapping his contact, I hit call. It rings once, then goes straight to voicemail.
The fucker denied my call. What a big man he is!
I don't bother leaving a message – I pull the phone away and lift my middle finger to the screen instead.
Very mature, I know.
Me: You can't do this.
The bubble comes back almost immediately.
Will: It's already done.
I go still. Not frozen – just... still. As if my body is trying to decide what to do with that. With all of this.
