Chapter 2 - The Monday Morning Massacre
I spent the weekend in a luxury suite at a downtown hotel, sipping room-service coffee and systematically dismantling my husband’s life.
Bradley and I had been married for four years. In that time, my marketing firm had exploded into a multi-million-dollar enterprise. Bradley, on the other hand, had "found himself" by quitting his corporate job to manage my firm’s "logistics"—which essentially meant he drove a company-leased Porsche, used a corporate Amex to buy his friends drinks, and played golf on Tuesdays. His entire family treated my wealth like a communal trough.
That ended on Saturday morning.
By Sunday evening, I had completely frozen the joint accounts, transferring exactly my legal 50% into a secure, private account. I logged into my company’s financial portal and canceled Bradley’s corporate credit cards. Then, I called the leasing company and reported his Porsche as a surrendered asset, giving them the address of the apartment where he was currently sulking.
On Monday morning, I walked into my office building wearing a sharp blazer and a renewed sense of purpose. My attorney, a ruthless woman named Diane, was already waiting for me in the boardroom.
“The divorce filings are prepped,” Diane said, sliding a thick manila folder across the mahogany table. “Because you had the foresight to sign a prenup, his claim to your business is practically zero. But he’s going to fight for alimony, claiming he’s an ‘employee’ of your firm and has grown accustomed to the lifestyle.”
“He’s not an employee anymore,” I said, signing the papers. “I fired him via email an hour ago for gross misconduct and misappropriation of company funds. I have the receipts of him using the corporate card for Barbara’s country club dues.”
My phone buzzed on the table. It was Bradley. He had called forty-two times over the weekend, transitioning from furious demands to pathetic begging after he and his family were forced to pay a local towing company a thousand dollars to haul them out of the mountains in the bed of a pickup truck.
I put it on speaker.
“Maddie, my card was just declined at the coffee shop,” Bradley panicked. “And a tow truck just hooked up the Porsche! What the hell is going on? You’re acting crazy!”
“I’m acting like the successful businesswoman you mocked on Friday night,” I answered smoothly. “Check your email, Bradley. You’re fired. The locks on our condo have been changed, and your clothes are in garbage bags at a storage unit downtown. Diane will be serving you shortly.”
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“You can’t do this!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “I am your husband! My family—”
“Your family laughed while your cousins assaulted me,” I cut in, my voice dropping to a whisper that made the line go dead silent. “You chose your audience, Bradley. Now you can live with them.” I hung up and blocked his number.
