Chapter 1He Divorced A Fake Bankrupt Billionaire

My husband’s family was living in the brownstone my parents bought me, yet they had the audacity to treat me like some uncultured hack whose only talent was collecting rent.

The breaking point didn't come with a scream or a shattered plate. It came on a Tuesday, when my brother-in-law needed a car for a date. My husband tossed him the keys to my BMW and told me to take the city bus to the grocery store.

Bored, swaying on the transit line, I opened the old, handed-down iPad my husband had relegated to me.

What I found wasn't just a screen full of inappropriate texts. It was a group chat titled: Operation: Upgrade.

My brother-in-law: “Bro, when are you getting her to sign that duplex over to me? My fiancée’s mom is breathing down my neck.”

My mother-in-law: “What’s the rush? Let your brother drain the rest of her trust fund first, then we can throw the dead weight out.”

My husband: “Relax. I’ve got her completely trained. She reports to me before she even buys groceries. She’s too dumb to make waves.”

Watching the city blur past the smudged glass of the bus window, the afternoon sun suddenly felt blindingly sharp.

They wanted to strip me for parts?

Fine. Let me show them what this "uncultured hack" could do when she decided to tear the whole house down.

…

* * *

The bus lurched violently, sending a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach.

My knuckles were white as I gripped the overhead rail, my other hand clutching the dented iPad adorned with a fading Peppa Pig sticker. Trent had given it to me when he upgraded.

"Babe, you don't really work, you just stream shows anyway," he had said smoothly. "This is plenty for you. I need the new Pro for my client pitches."

I had believed him. Just like I believed him when he said, "Let Kyle borrow the Beemer for a few days, he needs to look good for this girl."

And what was the reality?

I was currently pressed against a damp window like a sardine, while his slacker younger brother, Kyle, was driving my 5-Series. I knew this because Kyle’s location on social media showed him at the most expensive rooftop club downtown. The caption? "Bro and SIL’s car is my car. We ride."

I took a shaky breath and woke up the iPad screen.

I had meant to open Netflix, but my thumb ghosted over the messaging app. Trent’s account was still logged in.

Pinned at the very top was a chat with a celebratory little rocket ship emoji: Operation: Upgrade.

Members: My husband, my mother-in-law, my brother-in-law.

Noticeably absent: Me.

The messages populated rapidly, scrolling down the screen like a series of physical slaps to the face.

Kyle: "Seriously Trent, when is Georgia signing over that rental property? My future mother-in-law is acting like I'm a peasant. No house, no wedding."

Helen, my mother-in-law: "Have some patience! That stupid cow is wrapped around your brother’s finger. Once he liquidates the rest of those investments her dad left her, we can toss the dead weight to the curb."

Dead weight.

The words pricked at the backs of my eyes like tiny glass shards.

I had been married to Trent for three years. I came into this marriage with a fully paid-off brownstone, two lucrative rental properties, and a seven-figure portfolio.

And Trent’s family? A dilapidated farmhouse two states over and a brother who treated employment like a contagious disease.

I had ignored my parents' warnings. I thought Trent had potential. I thought he was an honest, hardworking man.

Turns out, I really was the "stupid cow."

Trent’s reply popped up.

"Relax, guys. She does whatever I say. I told her to buy Maine lobster for dinner tonight. She thinks it's for our anniversary, but it's actually to celebrate Kyle's engagement. She's so gullible, she buys whatever narrative I feed her."

Helen replied with a crying-laughing emoji. "Make sure you have her open that vintage Bordeaux, too. But don't let her drink it, it's a waste. Rent collectors only need tap water."

Kyle: "Hey bro, her BMW is getting a little miles on it. Once we get the house, make her buy me a Porsche, yeah?"

Trent: "Done. Once we bleed her dry, I'll buy you a private jet if you want."

I stared out the window at the passing storefronts. The sunlight was so agonizingly bright it bleached the color from the world.

I didn't cry.

Instead, a strange, breathless laugh escaped my throat. The older woman sitting next to me shot me a nervous sideways glance and inched away.

I opened my banking app. A quarterly rental deposit had just cleared. Fifty thousand dollars. The numbers were beautiful, crisp, and bold, but the blood pumping through my veins felt like ice water.

Strip me for parts? Bleed me dry?

Alright.

If they thought I was just a vulgar woman who only knew how to collect checks, I would show them what happened when a vulgar woman decided to burn the fucking house to the ground.

I didn't get off at the upscale seafood market.

I stayed on the bus until the end of the line, got off at the industrial district, and walked into a wholesale disposal market. It was the place where vendors dumped the wilted greens and the gray, foul-smelling, dead seafood nobody wanted.