MY HUSBAND RAISED HIS CHAMPAGNE GLASS AND TOLD ME TO DIE QUIETLY, COMPLETELY CERTAIN HE WAS READING MY CANCER RESULTS—UNTIL I SAID, “CHECK THE PATIENT’S NAME, YOU IDIOT.”

By late afternoon, the glass-and-steel mansion in the suburbs felt entirely different.

The imported Italian marble floors no longer felt cold and menacing; they felt like neutral territory. I stood in the center of the kitchen holding a cardboard moving box, methodically packing up my personal belongings—not that there were many. For seven years, Richard had kept me living like a transient in my own home, filling the closets with his designer suits and his mistress's forgotten luxury items.

The front door clicked open.

Heavy, stumbling footsteps echoed across the foyer.

Richard walked into the kitchen. He looked like a corpse that had forgotten how to stop breathing. His tie was ripped open, his shirt collar stained with sweat, and his eyes were bloodshot and hollow.

He didn't have his car keys. His corporate credit cards had been declined at lunch; his accounts had been frozen by the board before he even reached the parking garage.

He stopped a few feet away from me, his chest heaving.

“You... you destroyed me,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and utter helplessness. “You took my company, my money, my entire life... while I’m standing here dying.”

I didn't stop folding my cashmere sweater. I didn't even look up.

“I didn't destroy you, Richard,” I replied, my voice calm and level. “You built a house out of glass, lies, and arrogance, and then you invited a storm inside. I just opened the front door.”

“Please, Samantha,” he choked out, suddenly dropping to his knees on the marble floor, grasping weakly at the hem of my trousers just as he had done to me when I begged for his attention two weeks ago. “We’re husband and wife! You can’t leave me here alone to die! Who’s going to take care of me? Who’s going to manage the doctors?”

I looked down at him. The man who had stepped over my legs while I cowered in fear, telling me to die quietly so he could take his mistress to Paris.

I gently pulled my trousers from his trembling grip, stepping back.

“Hire a nurse, Richard,” I said, quoting his exact words back to him like a final judgment. “I’m managing volatile life assets. Stop sulking.”