The slap came so hard that for one strange second, I thought the crystal chandelier above the dining table had shattered. My head snapped to the side.

The winter sun crept through the sheer curtains of our—my—bedroom, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.

I hadn’t slept.

I sat in the velvet armchair by the window, wrapped in a heavy wool cardigan, watching the snow fall over the sprawling estate. Evan had not come home. His closet was half-empty, the hangers pushed aside in what must have been a frantic packing session while I was downstairs drinking tea with Arthur.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

It was a text from an unknown number.

You won the battle last night, Claire. But you won’t win the war. He loves me.

I stared at the screen, the audacity of Sloane Mercer making my blood boil all over again. I blocked the number and tossed the phone onto the bed.

I walked into the master bathroom and looked at my reflection. There was a faint red mark on my left cheek, a physical reminder of the humiliation. But as I stared at myself, the initial shock began to fade, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.

I walked downstairs to the kitchen.

The house was eerily silent. For six years, my mornings had been dictated by Evan’s schedule. Making his espresso, laying out his ties, reviewing his daily itinerary because his assistant was chronically incompetent.

Today, I made tea for myself.

Before I could take the first sip, the doorbell rang.

I pulled my cardigan tighter and opened the heavy front door. A man in a tailored black suit stood on the porch, holding a thick manila envelope.

“Mrs. Whitcomb?”

“Yes.”

“These are from your husband’s legal team. You’ve been served.”

I took the envelope, my hands completely steady. I closed the door and tore it open right there in the foyer.

Evan wasn’t just filing for divorce. He was attempting to freeze all our joint accounts and claiming the house—the house I had spent two years renovating—as pre-marital property, despite the fact that we bought it together.

He was trying to leave me with absolutely nothing.

My phone rang again. This time, the caller ID read: Arthur Whitcomb.

I answered on the first ring.

“Claire,” my father-in-law said, his voice raspy but firm. “I assume Evan’s lawyers have made their move?”

“They just dropped off the papers. He’s trying to freeze me out.”

“I suspected he would be foolish enough to try,” Arthur replied. “Get dressed. My driver is outside. We have a meeting with my personal attorneys. Evan forgot one crucial detail when he decided to declare war on you.”