The Billionaire Husband Who Faked Bankruptcy

Megan planted herself between us. "Mr. Lambert, back off."

He looked at her, then at me. "You're staying with her? You're sleeping at her place?"

"None of your business."

"You're my wife."

"Not for much longer."

His chest rose and fell a few times. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the black card, holding it out. "Take it."

I didn't.

He shoved it into the pocket of my coat. "The PIN hasn't changed."

I took it back out and threw it on the ground.

He stared at the card lying there and stood still for a long time.

The wind made a worse mess of his hair.

He crouched, picked it up, didn't hold it out again, just closed his hand around it.

"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked suddenly.

I said nothing.

"You just came out of the hospital…"

He edged half a step closer. "Are you sick?"

Megan pulled at my arm. "Let's go."

He was still shouting behind us. "Tell me what's wrong with you!"

I didn't look back.

It was only once we were inside the stairwell that I heard him smash something.

As Megan unlocked the door upstairs, she said quietly, "The way he looked at your hand just now—"

"Don't."

Inside, while I was changing out of my shoes, a slip of paper fell from my pocket.

It was the medical report. I had no idea when he'd slipped it in.

One line was circled in pen: nervous tremor, rest advised.

I didn't read it twice. I tore it up and threw it in the trash.

That night, after she was asleep, I sat in the living room scrolling on my phone and saw he'd posted something. Just two words: It's over.

Someone had commented underneath: What's over?

He didn't reply.

I swiped past it, opened the chat with the assistant, typed a few words, then deleted them.

In the end I sent: He'll probably go in to the company tomorrow.

The assistant replied: Got it.

I locked the screen.

Headlights swept past outside, stopped below the building, then drove off.

I sat in the dark for a long time. My hand was still shaking, but less than during the day.

The next morning Rodney got to the county clerk's office before me.

He was leaning against the railing by the steps, smoking, seven or eight butts at his feet.

When I walked over he looked up and stubbed out the cigarette.

"You've lost weight."

"The papers."

He took them out of his pocket but didn't hand them over. "Last time I'm asking."

I reached out and took them, flipped through. In the photo the two of us sat side by side, both faces stiff.

I put it in my bag and turned to go.

He followed a couple of steps. "At least take a card. You've got no money on you—"

"I do."

"You quit that job. How much can you make running deliveries?"

"Enough to live on."

He stopped.

I'd gone a dozen steps when I heard him call out, "I'm moving out this afternoon. The house is yours."

From then on, I was free…

Out past that street, I flagged a cab. The driver asked where to.

I gave him the address of the law firm.

On the way my phone buzzed. A message from Megan: Got it done?

I replied: Yeah.

She fired back instantly: Drinks tonight.

By the time I reached the firm, the lawyer had the rest of the documents ready. I signed, stamped them, and he slid a check across to me.

"He had someone bring this over this morning. Said it's for you."

I looked at the number and didn't move.

The lawyer nudged the check toward me again. "Just take it. He won't rest easy until you do."

"What do I care whether he rests easy."

"Take it and he won't have an excuse to keep contacting you."

I thought about it, folded it, and tucked it into my pocket.

Outside I stood on the sidewalk for a while. The sky was overcast, about to rain, a damp smell in the air.

My phone rang. Unknown number.

I picked up. It was the assistant's voice, kept very low. "It's me. He blew up at the office. Smashed the place."