She Ate His Leftovers,So I Made Her Eat Everyone's

"Got your own husband thrown in a holding cell, then brought your assistant home. Fiona, you've really outdone yourself."

"Don't get the wrong idea. Job's clothes were dirty, and the hotel happened to be close to the house, so I brought him up to shower and change. That's all."

"You don't like other people touching your things, so I let him wear mine."

That matter-of-fact expression on her face, as if I were the one being unreasonable.

"You have germaphobia. Our clothes have to be washed separately. But now yours are on him. So the germaphobia only applies to me, is that it?"

Job kept up his sickening act. "Mr. Henson, please don't misunderstand. Director Prescott said she's giving me these pants. She won't be wearing them again."

"Did I ask you? My wife and I are talking. Stop butting in!"

Job's face crumpled into a pitiful, on-the-verge-of-tears look. "I just didn't want you to misunderstand Director Prescott."

"How thoughtful of you."

Fiona turned on me. "Rolf, enough! You threw your weight around at the hotel, and now you're starting up again at home?"

I fired right back. "You think I want this?!"

Job tugged at Fiona's sleeve. "Let it go, Director Prescott. He's your husband, after all. I'm just an assistant. A little mistreatment won't kill me."

"So what if he's my husband? That doesn't give him the right to bully you!"

"Let's get a divorce, Fiona."

She froze. "What did you say?"

"I said divorce."

"You want a divorce over something this petty?"

"You think this is petty?"

"Nothing happened between me and Job. He's just a kid who just started working. I look out for him a little more than usual. What's wrong with that?"

"I don't want my woman looking after another man. It disgusts me."

Fiona snapped like a cornered animal, fury exploding out of her in an instant.

"Fine. You want a divorce? Then you leave with nothing. My money, my house, none of it has anything to do with you. Without me, you won't even be able to afford your next meal!"

She snatched up her phone and called her lawyer, demanding a divorce agreement be drafted immediately.

It arrived fast.

I didn't think twice. I signed it.

Fiona saw my signature and signed without hesitation.

Job was practically biting his lip to keep from grinning. "Rolf, buddy, now that you and Director Prescott are divorced, I bet you can't even afford to eat."

I pointed at the door. "Get the hell out."

"On what authority? Director Prescott hasn't told me to leave."

"Fiona and I haven't filed the papers yet. That means I'm still the man of this house. Get out. Now."

Fiona pulled Job into her arms. "This house is mine. If anyone's leaving, it's you."

She called the housekeepers over and had them throw every last thing I owned out the front door. My belongings piled up on the doorstep like a small mountain.

I didn't rush. Didn't panic. I pulled out my phone, opened a group chat, and typed one message.

Uncles, I'm divorced. Fiona kicked me out.

The chat erupted.

Messages flooded in one after another.

"That woman dared treat our precious nephew like this? Sounds like she's had it too good for too long and forgot where she came from."

"We put her where she is. We can just as easily tear her back down."

"Treating Rolf like this? She must have a death wish."

…

"Enough talk. Move. Now."

I stood outside the villa, watching the messages roll in, one after another.

Job was standing in the doorway too, arms crossed, watching me. "Still here? Can't bring yourself to leave?"

"I get it. After today, forget living in a place like this. You probably won't even get to look at a mansion this nice again."

Just as Job was gloating to his heart's content, a convoy from the District Attorney's office was pulling up the road toward them.

When the vehicles stopped in front of the villa, both Fiona and Job froze.

Several prosecutors stepped out.

"We are hereby seizing this property in accordance with the law. Nothing inside may be removed."

They proceeded to tape official seizure notices across the front doors.