My husband threw my birthday cake on the floor and told me to eat it like a dog, unaware I owned every single asset he bragged about.

The elevator ride was silent, smooth, and mercifully brief.

When the doors opened onto the fourteenth floor, my forensic accounting team was already hard at work. Blue-shirted technicians were disconnecting hard drives, boxing file folders, and cataloging the framed gold records that lined the walls.

"Every single one of those plaques was paid for with marketing grants from my trust," I noted as Julian followed me into the executive boardroom.

Through the glass wall facing Division Street, I could look straight down to the sidewalk below.

Grant was still down there. He hadn't left.

He was standing on the curb, his arms flailing as he argued violently with Sabrina. From fourteen stories up, they looked like two insects fighting over a crumb.

Suddenly, a flatbed tow truck swung around the corner, followed closely by a sleek black SUV. The tow truck pulled directly in front of the building, backing up toward Grant's matte-black Aston Martin DBX—the car he had bought six months ago to celebrate signing an arena tour.

I picked up my phone and called the towing supervisor, who had been on standby since 7:00 AM.

"Proceed," I said.

Down on the street, two men in fluorescent vests jumped out of the tow truck. One of them immediately slipped wheel dollies under the Aston Martin's rear tires.

Grant threw himself in front of the vehicle, screaming, his hands slapping the hood of the car. Sabrina tried to pull him back, but when one of the repo agents handed her a clipboard—undoubtedly showing the default notice on the lease—she dropped her hands immediately.

Through the glass, I saw the exact moment the realization hit Sabrina.

She looked at the car being winched onto the flatbed. She looked at Grant, who was now on his knees on the pavement, screaming at the driver. Then she looked down at her own wrist, where a diamond-encrusted Rolex oyster perpetual gleamed in the morning sun.

A man in a navy blazer stepped out of the black SUV, approached Sabrina, and showed her a badge. He was an investigator from the private recovery firm I had hired.

He pointed to her wrist.

Even from fourteen stories up, I saw Sabrina's shoulders slump. She didn't fight. She didn't scream. With trembling hands, she unclasped the eighty-thousand-dollar timepiece Grant had given her for their six-month anniversary, handed it over to the recovery agent, spun on her designer heels, and walked briskly toward the Broadway intersection, leaving Grant alone on the concrete.

"Poetic," Julian commented, standing beside me with a cup of black tea. "Though I suspect she’ll be on a flight to Atlanta before lunch."