The Penniless Ex-Wife Is A Hidden Boss

The master bedroom was completely dark. The sound of Bartholomew's deep, even breathing filled the room. The alcohol had pulled him into a heavy sleep.

Casey pushed the bedroom door open. She did not turn on the lights. The neon glow from the Manhattan skyline spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the massive bed. She stood there for a few seconds, looking at the bed she had shared with him for five years. She felt absolutely nothing.

She turned and walked into the walk-in closet. It was the size of a small apartment. She walked past his rows of custom suits and stopped at her side of the room.

She opened the glass doors. Dozens of haute couture gowns and limited-edition Hermes bags lined the shelves. These were her uniforms. Bartholomew had bought them so she would look like a proper Hendricks wife at charity galas.

She ignored the expensive fabrics. She dropped to her knees and reached into the very back corner of the bottom shelf. She grabbed the handle of a scuffed, black fabric suitcase. It was the same suitcase she had brought with her five years ago.

She dragged it out and unzipped it. She opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out five plain cotton t-shirts and two pairs of faded denim jeans. She threw them into the suitcase. She grabbed her thick, heavy laptop from the top shelf and placed it carefully on top of the clothes.

She walked into the master bathroom. She grabbed her face wash and her cheap moisturizer. She looked at the two electric toothbrushes sitting in the marble holder. She grabbed hers and threw it directly into the metal trash can.

Ten minutes later, she zipped the suitcase shut. She lifted it by the handle. It was incredibly light. Five years of marriage, and this was all she was taking.

She rolled the suitcase out of the closet and stopped next to Bartholomew's side of the bed. She looked down at his sleeping face.

She lifted her left hand. Her fingers were stiff. She grabbed the five-carat diamond ring on her ring finger and pulled. The metal slid over her knuckle.

She placed the ring onto the black marble nightstand. The heavy diamond hit the stone with a sharp, high-pitched click. The sound was tiny, but to Casey, it sounded like a lock finally snapping open.

She opened her wallet and pulled out the black Centurion credit card Bartholomew had given her. She slid the plastic card directly under the diamond ring.

She did not look at him again. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase, walked out of the bedroom, and pulled the door shut until it clicked.

She walked down the hallway and slipped into the small guest bedroom. She set the suitcase down and opened her laptop.

The screen lit up her face in the dark room. She opened her browser and typed in a complex string of passwords. She bypassed three layers of security and logged into a hidden, encrypted email server. It was a system she had painstakingly built, utilizing multiple offshore proxies and shell accounts to ensure her digital footprint was entirely untraceable by the Hendricks family's vast intelligence network. The account name at the top read: Bedlam.

Her inbox was flooded with unread messages. They were all heavily encrypted forwards from her trusted literary agent and legal representative, containing dozens of lucrative letters of intent from top Hollywood producers and major publishing houses who were begging for a chance to bid on her work. She ignored all of them.

She clicked on a new email draft. The recipient was the most ruthless divorce attorney in Manhattan. Her fingers flew across the keyboard.

She typed the terms of the divorce. She explicitly stated she was waiving all rights to spousal support. She demanded a zero-asset split. She wanted the divorce filed immediately under the terms of the prenuptial agreement.

She hit send. The loading bar flashed across the screen and disappeared. The email was gone.

Casey closed the laptop and shoved it into her backpack. She grabbed her suitcase and walked to the front entrance of the penthouse.

The door to the servant's quarters opened. Maureen, the senior housekeeper, stepped out wearing a thick wool robe. Maureen saw the suitcase and gasped. She slapped both hands over her mouth.

Maureen rushed forward. She grabbed Casey's arm.

"Mrs. Hendricks, please," Maureen whispered frantically. "Do not do this. Do not leave in the middle of the night. Mr. Hendricks will be furious tomorrow."

Casey looked at the older woman. Maureen was the only person in this house who had ever offered her a glass of water when she was sick. Casey offered her a small, genuine smile.

She gently pulled her arm out of Maureen's grip.

"I am not coming back, Maureen," Casey said softly.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the heavy metal key to the penthouse. She placed it gently into the silver tray on the console table.

"Take care of yourself," Casey said. "You do not need to leave the door unlocked."

Casey turned around and pressed her thumb against the biometric scanner. The heavy steel door unlocked. She stepped out into the hallway and the door slammed shut behind her, sealing off the penthouse forever.

She stepped into the elevator and pressed the lobby button. The elevator dropped fast. The sudden loss of gravity made her stomach float. For the first time in five years, she felt like she could breathe. The crushing weight on her chest was gone.

She walked out of the luxury building and onto the sidewalk. It was two in the morning. The rain had turned into a light, freezing drizzle. The wind whipped the bottom of her trench coat around her legs.

She did not call the private family driver. She dragged her suitcase to the corner of the street and raised her hand.

A beat-up yellow taxi swerved to the curb and stopped. Casey opened the back door and threw her suitcase onto the seat. She climbed in and slammed the door.

The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror. "Where to, lady?" he asked in a thick Brooklyn accent.

Casey gave him the address of a cheap apartment complex in Brooklyn. It was where her best friend, Paige, lived.

The taxi pulled away from the curb. Casey leaned her head against the cold glass of the window. She watched the towering, glittering skyscrapers of Manhattan slowly fade away behind her. She closed her eyes and smiled.