Chapter 3: Game Over, Nate

Vivian's POV

Watching Nathaniel's face cycle through confusion, rage, and panic was better than any revenge fantasy I'd ever cooked up.

"Don't thank me, asshole. I already booked the moving company for you. Just head home and start packing!"

Emily's wailing came through the phone speaker, high and desperate.

"Emily, sweetie, Daddy's coming home right now." Nathaniel fumbled with the phone, shooting me a look that could melt steel. "Vivian, this is fucking insane!"

I smiled sweetly. "Language, Nate."

"You can't just—" He stopped mid-sentence, probably realizing he had zero legal ground to stand on. "Fine. FINE. You want to play dirty? Game on."

He stormed toward his car, but not before turning back one last time. "This isn't over!"

"Oh, honey," I called after him, "it's been over for years. You're just catching up."

I drove home slowly, taking the scenic route past the coffee shop where I used to sketch, past the art supply store I'd avoided for months because Nate deemed my purchases "wasteful." Today, everything looked different. Brighter.

When I pulled into the driveway, Nathaniel's BMW was parked at a reckless angle, and I could hear shouting from inside. Perfect.

I found them in the living room—Nathaniel red-faced and gesticulating while Jacob and Emily huddled on the couch like scared little kids. The moving guys had clearly done their job. Half the furniture was gone, including Nate's precious leather recliner and that ugly coffee table he'd insisted was "masculine."

"There she is!" Nathaniel spun around, pointing at me like I was some wanted criminal. "Vivian, you've lost your goddamn mind!"

"Actually, I think I just found it." I surveyed their pile of belongings with satisfaction. "You missed a spot, though. My grandmother's china is still in that box."

"That's my mother's china!"

"Check the receipt, genius. I bought it with my 'worthless artist money' three years ago." I gestured toward the door. "Better hurry."

Emily burst into fresh tears. "I don't want to move!"

"Then talk to your father. This is his mess, not mine."

Nathaniel looked ready to explode, but before he could speak, Emily's sobs got louder. Behind me, I heard footsteps on the porch.

"Oh good," I said, checking my watch. "Right on time."

A middle-aged man in work clothes appeared in the doorway, toolbox in hand.

Nathaniel's eyes went wide, then narrowed dangerously. "Who the hell is this guy?"

'Here we go,' I thought. Classic Nate—jumping to the most dramatic conclusion possible.

"Oh my God," he continued, his voice getting louder. "I should have known! You've been planning this, haven't you? How long has this been going on, Vivian? How long have you been screwing around behind my back?"

The locksmith looked uncomfortable. The kids stared. I started laughing.

"Jesus Christ, Nathaniel. You think I'm having an affair with the locksmith?"

"I... well... he's..." Nate's face went from red to purple.

"Sir?" The locksmith cleared his throat. "Should I come back later?"

"No, you're good." I pointed toward the front door. "Standard deadbolt replacement. Take your time."

Poor Nate looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole.

"Right then." The locksmith stepped around the family drama like he'd seen it all before. "Won't take more than twenty minutes."

After they finally left—Nate muttering threats about lawyers and custody while herding the kids toward his car—I called the cleaning service.

"Complete deep clean," I told them. "Top to bottom. I want to erase every trace of the previous occupants."

But when the cleaners finished and I stood alone in my spotless, half-empty house, something twisted in my chest. Eight years of marriage, and this was what I had to show for it? A reading chair, some art supplies, and kitchen gadgets?

'Everything else was theirs,' I realized. 'I never really claimed anything.'

I was still processing that depressing thought when my phone rang.

"Ms. Sterling? This is Marcus Webb from the Hartwell Gallery in Manhattan."

My heart stopped. "I'm sorry, who?"

"Your piece, 'Suffocating Afternoons'—it sold at auction yesterday. For seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

The phone nearly slipped from my hand. "You're... you're sure? The blue series piece?"

"Absolutely. Frankly, Ms. Sterling, you are a promising young artist."

I was still reeling when someone started pounding on my front door at seven the next morning.

"VIVIAN!" Barbara's voice cut through the morning air like nails on a chalkboard. "VIVIAN, OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"

I looked out the window to see my former mother-in-law standing on my porch in her bathrobe and curlers, hammering on the door like she was trying to break it down.

"GO AWAY, BARBARA!" I shouted back.

"YOU CAN'T JUST STEAL MY SON'S HOUSE! HALF OF EVERYTHING IS HIS!"

I opened the door just wide enough to stick my foot in the gap when she tried to push inside.

"Actually, you delusional old bat, this house is mine. Bought and paid for with my money before I married your precious son." I smiled as her face turned an unhealthy shade of purple. "But thanks for stopping by!"

She shoved harder, trying to force her way in. "You little bitch! You think you can just—"

I slammed the door on her foot.

"OW! OW! LET ME GO!"

"Get off my property before I call the cops." I held the door firm while she hopped around on one foot. "And tell Nathaniel if he wants to reclaim all that community property money he's been funneling to you for the past years, he'd better get a damn good lawyer."

Two security guards from the neighborhood patrol were already jogging toward my porch. Apparently, screaming profanity at seven AM was frowned upon in our little slice of suburbia.

"Problem here, ladies?" the older guard asked.

"This woman is trespassing," I said calmly, finally releasing Barbara's foot. "She's the ex-mother-in-law."

They led her away, still shrieking about lawyers and righteous justice. I was making coffee when my phone rang again.

"Ms. Sterling? This is Edward Vaughn from Pemberton Trust Associates. I believe it's time we discussed your mother's estate provisions."

"My mother's what now?"

"The conditional trust, ma'am. According to the terms she established, your divorce triggers a release of assets. We're talking about roughly one hundred million dollars."

I sat down hard on my kitchen stool.

"Ms. Sterling? Are you there?"

"Yeah," I managed. "Yeah, I'm here."

Three years ago. Right around the time Mom got sick. Right around the time she'd started asking pointed questions about my marriage.

'She knew,' I thought, gripping the phone tighter. 'She fucking knew this would happen.'