“The marriage is over,” my husband told me after bringing Sabrina into my $4.8 million Lake Norman villa.
He delivered the line the way other men talk about the weather — flat, final, as if the decision had been made long before I walked into the room. Sabrina stood in my foyer as though she belonged there, her heels striking the marble I had personally chosen, slab by slab, three years earlier.
Grant slid a thick stack of papers across the kitchen island. A divorce settlement. An asset waiver. Company stock transfer documents. Page after page, every one of them describing my villa — my villa — as if he were its owner.