I signed the divorce papers exactly four minutes before my husband walked into the hospital room holding my sister's hand. I'd been awake for thirty-six hours by then. The IV in my arm was dripping cold fluid into a body that had just lost a baby—our baby, the one I'd carried for five months while everyone told me I was "too fragile" to deserve happiness. Nobody came when I started bleeding. Nobody answered when I called. The only message I got was a photo my husband, Damien Crane, had posted to the family group chat: him, my sister Vanessa, and my parents, smiling over a candlelit dinner at the lake house. The irony nearly killed me before the miscarriage did. Vanessa frowned when she saw the divorce papers in my lap. She picked them up with two manicured fingers and tore them clean in half. "Camille, what is this little tantrum?" she said, her voice dripping with that practiced pity. "Damien and I were just discussing the charity gala. I forgot to tell you. That's all." Then her gaze drifted to the bloodstained sheets, and a flicker of unease crossed her perfect face. She softened. "Fine. It was my fault for not calling. I'll be more careful next time. Why don't you rest, and when you're better, the three of us will go shopping. My treat." That was Vanessa. Strike first, then offer the bandage. Hurt you, then act like the hurt was a gift. For thirty years I'd been the one to apologize first. The one who smoothed things over. The one who swallowed it. But this time, I pulled a second copy of the divorce agreement from under my pillow and dropped it on her lap. "I printed twelve," I said. "Tear as many as you'd like." Damien's face went pale. Vanessa's went red. She flung the papers to the floor. "You ungrateful little—" She caught herself, lowering her voice. "Don't you dare forget, Camille. You owe Damien everything. Mom and Dad only let you marry him because he agreed to take you off their hands. I'm only here cleaning up your mess because I'm trying to repay what your weakness has cost this family!" My weakness. My mess. I had no mess. I had a husband who'd been sleeping with my sister for two years, parents who'd signed my trust fund over to her, and a baby who'd just died because no one in this family thought my life was worth a phone call. Damien finally spoke, voice gentle and false. "Cami, you're not thinking clearly. You just lost the baby. You're emotional." Emotional. As if grief were a flaw. I looked at the man I'd married at twenty-two, the man I'd given my inheritance, my name, my body, my child. And I felt nothing but a cold, clean calm. "I'll see you in court," I said, "when you've decided how much of my life you're willing to give back." Vanessa laughed. "And where exactly will you go, Camille? You have nothing. No money. No friends. No one who'd take you in." I smiled at her for the first time in years. Because she was wrong. Because three months ago, a lawyer had handed me an envelope that would burn this entire family to the ground—and I hadn't decided whether to use it. Now I had.
