The rain tapped against the kitchen window, cold and persistent.

My coffee had gone lukewarm in my favorite ceramic mug.

Across the table, Scott pushed a thick manila folder toward me.

“Sign it, Avery,” he said.

His voice was flat, devoid of the warmth we had shared for seven years.

“You want a divorce?” I asked.

My fingers tightened around the mug.

“We have grown apart,” he said, adjusting the strap of his watch.

It was a brand-new gold Rolex, gleaming under the fluorescent kitchen lights.

He had bought it three days ago.

That was the day his grandmother’s estate cleared probate, leaving him twenty-two million dollars.

“You are leaving me because of the money,” I said.

He did not look at me.

He looked at the empty wall behind my head.

“The money just gives me the freedom to live the life I actually want,” he said.

His phone buzzed on the granite countertop between us.

The screen lit up with a preview of a text message.

It was a photo of a positive pregnancy test next to a sonogram.

The sender’s name was Kayla Jensen.

My chest tightened as I recognized the name of my former college friend.

“Kayla?” I whispered.

Scott swiped the phone off the counter and shoved it into his pocket.

“She is pregnant, Avery,” he said.

“She is carrying my child.”

“We are moving into the estate house next month.”

He stood up, pulling his wool coat off the back of the chair.

“My lawyers will contact you tomorrow,” he said.

The front door clicked shut behind him, leaving me in the silence of our suburban house.

I sat on the living room floor of Rachel’s apartment later that evening.

The smell of peppermint tea filled the small kitchen.

Rachel handed me a warm mug and sat opposite me on the rug.

“He cannot do this to you,” she said, her eyes flashing with anger.

“He has all the leverage, Rachel,” I said, staring into my tea.

“The money belonged to his grandmother Beatrice.”

“I have nothing of my own.”

Rachel shook her head, her dark curls bouncing.

“Beatrice hated cheaters,” Rachel said.