Galvin Emma Medina

My husband signed the divorce papers on our anniversary. He didn't look up. He just slid the pen across the table—to his mistress. "Sign as the witness, baby," Marcus told her, smiling. "Make it official." Sloane Vance laughed and signed her name in pink ink, dotting the "i" with a tiny heart. I sat there in my five-year-old coat, holding a grocery bag, while the two of them celebrated my erasure like it was a wedding. "Don't make a scene, Hazel," Marcus said, finally glancing at me with that look—the one that said you're lucky I ever married you. "You knew this day was coming. You brought nothing to this marriage. No money, no family, no connections. I carried you for three years." He carried me. I almost laughed. Behind him, on the wall, hung the painting I'd bought him for his first promotion. He didn't know I'd paid for it with money that could buy the entire building we lived in. He didn't know a lot of things. "Sloane's family owns half the harbor district," he went on. "Her father can get me on the board. You—" he gestured at me, at my worn-out sneakers, "—you can't even get me a dinner reservation." Sloane giggled and looped her arm through his. A diamond bracelet slid down her wrist. I recognized it. It was the one Marcus told me he "couldn't afford" when I asked him to help pay my mother's hospital bill. The one I ended up paying myself, quietly, the way I did everything. "Where will you go?" Sloane asked sweetly, tilting her head. "You don't have anyone, do you? No parents. No backup. Just… nothing." I looked at the divorce papers. At the line that said I'd walk away with the contents of one suitcase and zero claim to "his" assets. His assets. Every penny he had, he'd borrowed against my name three years ago. He just never read the fine print. I picked up the pen. "Hazel?" Marcus frowned. "Don't tell me you're going to cry." I signed my name. Then I set the pen down and stood up. "Congratulations, Marcus," I said softly. "I really hope she's worth it." I walked to the door, suitcase in hand. And as I reached for the handle, my phone buzzed. A single text from a number I hadn't seen in seven years. "Miss Calloway. Your grandfather is dead. You are the sole heir to the Calloway Group. The board is waiting for your signature. The jet is at the private airfield. — Walsh." I closed my eyes. The name "Calloway" was the one thing in this world that could turn Marcus's face white. And he'd just thrown me out before learning it was mine.