“You divorced me two months ago.”
“It was complicated.”
“You sent the notices here.”
His jaw tightened.
“That was for convenience.”
“You put the waiver inside company documents while I was grieving my father.”
“You signed it.”
There it was.
His defense.
He said it with almost visible relief, as if my signature absolved every decision that had surrounded it.
I opened the folder again.
“Yes.
I signed it because you told me I was signing funding documents.”
“You should read what you sign.”
The cruelty of the sentence was so clean that for a moment I simply stared at him.
Then I nodded.
“You’re right.”
That answer confused him.
I continued.
“I should have read every page.
I should have questioned every unexplained night at this office.
I should have stopped believing that loving someone made them safe.”
He crossed his arms.
“So what do you want?”
“I wanted to hear you admit you knew.”
His expression changed.
He looked at the folder, then at me.
I had not recorded him secretly.
I did not need a theatrical confession.
I already had documents, dates, and records.
What I needed was to see whether he felt remorse.
He didn’t.
He felt inconvenienced.
Victor stood.
“If you’re going to make this ugly, remember we still have a company to run.”
“I remember.”
“And this divorce protects both of us.”
I almost smiled.
“Yes,” I said.
“It does.”
He mistook my agreement for surrender.
That was his second major mistake.
Then he asked the question I had been waiting for.
“What did your father leave you?”
I watched him carefully.
So that was why he had been circling the probate meeting.
He knew there was an estate.
He simply did not know its size.
I opened another document.
“Thirty-five million dollars.”
Victor stopped moving.
For the first time since I had discovered the divorce, he looked genuinely shocked.
“Thirty-five?”
“Yes.”
His eyes dropped immediately to the judgment date.
Then to the probate papers.
