Fiona took a deep breath. "Rolf, apologize to Job. Do that, and I'll let tonight go."

"Apologize to him? Have you lost your mind, or have I?"

Job put on a show of playing peacemaker. "Director Prescott, please don't fight with your husband because of me. I'm just a lowly assistant. A little mistreatment is nothing I can't handle."

He turned to me with that same rehearsed sincerity. "Mr. Henson, this is all my fault. Don't be angry at Director Prescott. Let me apologize to you."

He reached for my wrist as if to shake my hand, but his fingers clamped down and dug into my skin with vicious force.

The pain was blinding. I wrenched free of his grip.

"Get off me!"

I barely used any strength, but Job went flying. He crashed into the dining table, sending plates and bowls clattering to the floor. He tumbled down after them, landing in a mess of grease and spilled food. A shard of broken porcelain sliced his hand, and blood dripped onto the tiles.

"Rolf, you've gone too far!"

Fiona's palm cracked across my face before I could react, snapping my head to the side.

I ran my tongue over the corner of my mouth and tasted copper. Something inside me went quiet. Settled.

"Are you blind? He was the one digging his nails into me. I barely touched him. That fall was fake!"

Fiona ignored me. She crouched down and helped Job off the floor, then unwound the silk scarf from her neck to wrap around his bleeding hand.

That scarf. I'd given it to her for her birthday. Her name was embroidered on it in thread I'd stitched myself.

Now those two letters were soaking through with Job's blood.

"We're leaving."

She draped her arm around Job's shoulder and walked out without looking back.

The rest of the group scrambled for excuses and scattered just as fast, practically tripping over each other on the way out.

The private dining room fell silent. Just me and the wreckage.

A waiter knocked and poked his head in. "Sir, would you like to settle the bill?"

I fished a card out of my wallet. "Go ahead."

He swiped it and frowned. "I'm sorry, sir. This card has insufficient funds."

I handed him another. Same result.

Seven cards. Every single one declined.

Fiona had frozen all of them.

The waiter stood there watching me. "Sir, do you have any other way to pay?"

I tried calling my buddy, but he didn't pick up. Didn't answer my texts either.

The two of us just stood there in painful silence.

"I'll pay. I promise you, I'll pay."

The waiter had already lost patience. He grabbed his walkie-talkie.

"Manager Gray, we've got a dine-and-dasher here."

Antony Gray arrived with a police officer in tow.

"Sir, you'll need to come with us."

I tried to explain, but to them it was nothing but excuses.

They took me to the station to file a report. That was when my buddy finally called back. Twenty minutes later he showed up, settled the bill on my behalf, and I was free to go.

I paused outside the station doors and looked back at the building. A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

The sole heir to Henson Enterprises, hauled into a police station because he couldn't pay a dinner tab.

If word got out, people would laugh themselves sick.

All this time, my ambition had been simple: be a good husband. Support Fiona. Play the dutiful partner while she built her empire as the powerful businesswoman she wanted to be.

I never imagined that after I lifted her to the top, the first person she'd cut down would be me.

I'd made the wrong choice from the very beginning.

When I got home, a pair of men's dress shoes sat by the front door.

The same pair Job had been wearing tonight.

Fiona heard me come in and stepped out of the bedroom. Our eyes met.

I didn't say a word. I pushed past her and walked straight into the bedroom.

Job was standing there, shirtless, wearing a pair of Fiona's pajama pants. They were too short and too tight on him. He was toweling off his hair, still damp from a shower he'd just taken.

In my master bathroom.

"Got your own husband thrown in a holding cell, then brought your assistant home. Fiona, you've really outdone yourself."

"Don't get the wrong idea. Job's clothes were dirty, and the hotel happened to be close to the house, so I brought him up to shower and change. That's all."

"You don't like other people touching your things, so I let him wear mine."

That matter-of-fact expression on her face, as if I were the one being unreasonable.

"You have germaphobia. Our clothes have to be washed separately. But now yours are on him. So the germaphobia only applies to me, is that it?"

Job kept up his sickening act. "Mr. Henson, please don't misunderstand. Director Prescott said she's giving me these pants. She won't be wearing them again."

"Did I ask you? My wife and I are talking. Stop butting in!"

Job's face crumpled into a pitiful, on-the-verge-of-tears look. "I just didn't want you to misunderstand Director Prescott."

"How thoughtful of you."

Fiona turned on me. "Rolf, enough! You threw your weight around at the hotel, and now you're starting up again at home?"

I fired right back. "You think I want this?!"

Job tugged at Fiona's sleeve. "Let it go, Director Prescott. He's your husband, after all. I'm just an assistant. A little mistreatment won't kill me."

"So what if he's my husband? That doesn't give him the right to bully you!"

"Let's get a divorce, Fiona."

She froze. "What did you say?"

"I said divorce."

"You want a divorce over something this petty?"

"You think this is petty?"

"Nothing happened between me and Job. He's just a kid who just started working. I look out for him a little more than usual. What's wrong with that?"

"I don't want my woman looking after another man. It disgusts me."

Fiona snapped like a cornered animal, fury exploding out of her in an instant.

"Fine. You want a divorce? Then you leave with nothing. My money, my house, none of it has anything to do with you. Without me, you won't even be able to afford your next meal!"

She snatched up her phone and called her lawyer, demanding a divorce agreement be drafted immediately.

It arrived fast.

I didn't think twice. I signed it.

Fiona saw my signature and signed without hesitation.

Job was practically biting his lip to keep from grinning. "Rolf, buddy, now that you and Director Prescott are divorced, I bet you can't even afford to eat."

I pointed at the door. "Get the hell out."

"On what authority? Director Prescott hasn't told me to leave."

"Fiona and I haven't filed the papers yet. That means I'm still the man of this house. Get out. Now."

Fiona pulled Job into her arms. "This house is mine. If anyone's leaving, it's you."

She called the housekeepers over and had them throw every last thing I owned out the front door. My belongings piled up on the doorstep like a small mountain.

I didn't rush. Didn't panic. I pulled out my phone, opened a group chat, and typed one message.

Uncles, I'm divorced. Fiona kicked me out.

The chat erupted.

Messages flooded in one after another.

"That woman dared treat our precious nephew like this? Sounds like she's had it too good for too long and forgot where she came from."

"We put her where she is. We can just as easily tear her back down."

"Treating Rolf like this? She must have a death wish."

…

"Enough talk. Move. Now."

I stood outside the villa, watching the messages roll in, one after another.

Job was standing in the doorway too, arms crossed, watching me. "Still here? Can't bring yourself to leave?"

"I get it. After today, forget living in a place like this. You probably won't even get to look at a mansion this nice again."

Just as Job was gloating to his heart's content, a convoy from the District Attorney's office was pulling up the road toward them.

When the vehicles stopped in front of the villa, both Fiona and Job froze.

Several prosecutors stepped out.

"We are hereby seizing this property in accordance with the law. Nothing inside may be removed."

They proceeded to tape official seizure notices across the front doors.