The serving spoon struck my wrist with a sharp metallic sound.

Sarah filed on Thursday morning.

Not Monday.

Not Friday.

Thursday, before Julian's attorney had finished his first cup of coffee.

She called me from the courthouse steps.

"It's done.

Fraud, financial misconduct, breach of fiduciary duty.

The second ledger is attached as exhibit A.

Victoria's statement is exhibit B.

Marcus Hale's documentation is exhibit C."

I was standing in the kitchen of the townhouse, the one that was mine again on paper as of fourteen months ago.

The rosemary chicken pan was still soaking in the sink.

I had not gotten around to it.

"Has Julian been notified?" I said.

"His attorney called me eleven minutes after we filed.

Julian is — unhappy."

"What did his attorney say?"

"He said his client considers this an aggressive overreach and intends to countersue for defamation." A pause.

"I told him to read exhibit C before he used the word defamation again."

I dried my hands on a dish towel.

"And Marcus?"

"Marcus is relieved," Sarah said.

"He cried, actually.

On the phone.

He said he's been waiting eight months for someone to believe him."

I put the dish towel down on the counter.

"What happens now?"

"Now we wait for Julian to make a move," Sarah said.

"And he will.

Men like Julian always make a move.

The question is which one."

Julian made his move at two o'clock that afternoon.

He showed up at the townhouse without calling.

I saw his car from the upstairs window — the black sedan, parked half on the curb the way he always did when he was in a hurry and didn't care about the rules.

I came downstairs and opened the door before he could knock.

He looked like he had not slept.

His shirt was pressed but his eyes were not.

"You filed today," he said.

"Yes."

"You couldn't wait until Friday."

"No."

He stepped forward.

I did not step back.

He stopped in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

"Elena," he said, and his voice dropped into the register he used when he wanted to sound reasonable.

"You don't understand what you've started.

This goes beyond the divorce.

This goes beyond the house.

If this filing stands, Sterling House is finished.

The suppliers will pull out.

The investors will pull out.

Everything we built—"

"Everything I funded," I said.

"—will be gone." He looked at me.

"Is that what you want?

To burn it down?"

"I want it to be what it was supposed to be," I said.

"Before you started using it to hide money."

His hand tightened on the door frame.

"I was protecting the company."

"You were protecting yourself."

A muscle moved in his jaw.

"I can make this very difficult for you," he said.

"I have resources you don't know about.

I have people.

I can tie this up in court for three years.

I can make sure you spend everything you have on legal fees before a single judge rules on anything."

I looked at him for a moment.

"Julian," I said, "I've been married to you for nine years.

I know exactly how you fight.

I planned for it." I stepped back from the door.

"Goodbye."

He didn't move immediately.

He stood in the doorway with his hand still on the frame and looked at the dining room behind me — the blue-and-white room, the table still set for three, the photograph of himself at Sterling House still on the console.

Then he looked at me one more time.

"You should have just taken the number," he said.

"Probably," I said.

"But I didn't."

I closed the door.

I stood in the hallway and listened to his footsteps cross the porch, descend the steps, cross the pavement.

The car door.

The engine.

The sound of him leaving.

Then I went back to the kitchen and finished washing the pan.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

A text from a number I didn't recognize.