He had already made the decision.
Without asking me.
Without discussing it.
Without even pretending my opinion mattered.
I didn’t argue.
And somehow, that unsettled him more than if I had screamed.
I simply nodded, cleared the dinner plates, and asked what time he planned to pick them up the next day.
He smiled like a man who believed he had already won.
Early the next morning, he drove to Indianapolis to pick them up.
The second the front door shut behind him, I called my attorney, Rachel Bennett.
Then I called the landlord of the apartment—the beautiful, spacious place I had been paying for almost entirely during the last two years.
After that, I contacted the express moving company my firm used for executive relocations.
By mid-afternoon, our apartment no longer looked anything like the home Ethan had left that morning.
His belongings had been carefully packed.
Sorted.
Inventoried.
Boxed.
The main lock had been legally changed with the landlord’s full approval.
And on the console table near the entrance, I left a blue folder.
Inside were copies of the lease agreement, bank transfers, statements, and one short note.
“What is not handled with respect will be handled with action.”
At 8:20 that evening, I heard the elevator arrive.
First came Gloria’s sharp voice.
Then Kayla laughing.
And finally Ethan trying his key in a door that no longer belonged to him.
The doorbell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
