I didn’t sleep that night, but not because I was devastated.

That part had happened months earlier, the first time Marcus came home smelling like vanilla perfume and someone else’s ego.

What kept me awake was preparation.

I sat in the office Marcus called my “craft room,” surrounded by legal binders, deal memos, and acquisition documents. David Ross, my Chief Legal Officer, was on speakerphone.

“Last chance,” he said. “We can pull the deal without putting you in the room. We can bury him remotely.”

“No,” I said, looking out at the Hudson. “He served me divorce papers at my baby shower and called our child dead weight in front of fifty people. I want to watch the moment he realizes what he threw away.”

David exhaled like a man who respected vengeance done cleanly.

“The board is with you. The morality clause gives us cover, and your prenup is airtight.”

I almost laughed.

Marcus had signed that prenup five years earlier without reading it because he thought he was the powerful one. It clearly stated that in the event of provable infidelity, the cheating spouse forfeited all claims to marital assets acquired during the marriage.

And yesterday, in front of witnesses, he had introduced his mistress while serving me divorce papers.

He had gift-wrapped my case.

I stood and walked to my closet. For years, I had let Marcus believe I was exactly what he needed me to be: soft-spoken, unthreatening, decorative. Floral dresses. Cashmere cardigans. A well-timed laugh. The perfect wife for a man whose confidence couldn’t survive equality.

Today, that costume was over.

I pushed aside the maternity dresses and reached into the back for a custom black Armani suit tailored to fit over my baby bump without surrendering an ounce of authority. I put on the diamond studs I bought for myself before I ever met him. I pulled my hair into a severe knot and looked in the mirror.

There she was.

Not the wife.

Not the victim.

The CEO.