My husband brought his mistress to our anniversary dinner and let her sit in my chair. “I’m pregnant,” she announced, smiling like she had already won. David squeezed her hand and said, “Claire, be mature. Walk away.” I smiled, pulled a cream envelope from my purse, and slid it between them. “Congratulations,” I said. “But before you celebrate, you should both read what’s inside.”

For the first time that morning, I laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

“I built the restructuring plan you presented as yours,” I said. “I negotiated the supplier contracts you signed. I personally secured the European expansion while you were in Bali with Vanessa.”

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

I slid a final document across the table.

“Your termination. For cause.”

His face twisted. “You can’t.”

“I can. The board already voted.”

Vanessa whispered, “David?”

He looked at her then, really looked, and I saw the calculation. No company. No cards. No lake house. No private jet. No wife to rob. No mistress worth impressing.