My husband asked for a divorce during Thanksgiving dinner after I cooked for 12 hours—only to realize 48 hours later that he couldn't survive without me.

Saturday morning brought thirty-six hours of separation—and the complete unraveling of Daniel’s romantic fantasy.

I had arranged to meet my divorce attorney, Evelyn Vance-Cole (no relation, simply the most ruthless matrimonial lawyer in the tri-state area), at an upscale café in the city.

As I sat down, Evelyn slid a manila folder across the marble tabletop.

"Good morning, Claire. You look remarkably radiant for a woman whose husband blew up her life forty-eight hours ago."

"I feel lighter, Evelyn. What do we have?"

Evelyn tapped the folder with a manicured fingernail. "Your timing was surgical. Daniel tried to execute an emergency board resolution this morning to remove you as CFO. He brought his little friend Natalie into the corporate boardroom to take minutes."

I raised an eyebrow. "How did that go?"

"A total disaster," Evelyn smiled coldly. "The board consists of you, Daniel, and two minority equity partners who represent private freight syndicates. Those two partners took one look at the balance sheet without your signature, realized the Chase revolver was frozen, and told Daniel that if he didn't restore the credit line within twenty-four hours, they would file an emergency petition to place the company into court-supervised receivership."

"And Natalie?"

"Oh, this is the sweetest part," Evelyn leaned in. "When the equity partners started screaming about breach of fiduciary duty and personal liability for outstanding customs taxes, Natalie panicked. She realized she wasn't stepping into the role of a billionaire’s glamorous wife—she was stepping into an active federal audit. She grabbed her designer bag, resigned on the spot, and walked out while Daniel was mid-sentence. She reportedly told him in the lobby that she 'doesn't date men with negative net worths.'"

I took a slow sip of my black coffee. The image was delicious. Daniel had sacrificed seven years of devotion, trust, and bone-deep loyalty for a trophy who wouldn't even stay for forty-eight hours of turbulence.

"What is his next move?" I asked.

"He doesn't have one," Evelyn said bluntly. "Harrison Croft’s private jet landed at the executive airport an hour ago. The Chicago contract is supposed to be signed at Daniel’s house tonight over dinner. If Daniel doesn't produce an active operating solvency certificate by 8:00 PM, Croft will award the eighty-million-dollar Midwestern shipping contract to our primary competitor."

"And the only person who holds the power of attorney to execute that solvency certificate..."

"...is you," Evelyn finished. "Daniel knows it. He’s been outside my office building for forty-five minutes. He’s broken, Claire. He looks like a ghost."