She stepped forward and shoved the heavy manila folder hard against my chest:
*THWACK.*
“**These are divorce papers, Daniel,**” Claire announced with clinical, icy venom:
“I signed them this afternoon before my hair appointment. Our marriage is over. I am filing the petition in the Hamilton County Domestic Relations Court on Tuesday morning. I want you and your daughter’s trash bags out of our house by tomorrow night.”
Martin Collins threw his head back, letting out a loud, triumphant roar of laughter, raising his champagne glass high above the table:
“**The best Christmas gift she ever gave herself!**” Martin cheered, looking around the room as his relatives chuckled:
“Take your high school baggage and hit the road, Daniel! Go buy some gas so that rusted heap of junk in my driveway doesn’t break down and ruin our neighborhood aesthetic!”
Linda Collins chimed in from the table, dabbing her lips: “Don’t forget to take the tools from the garage, Daniel. We’re converting that space into a private pilates studio for Claire.”
I didn’t drop the folder.
I took the manila envelope in my left hand, looking down at the red-ink signature on the first page: `CLAIRE COLLINS-WHITAKER`.
I looked at Claire.
For eight years, I had believed there was a decent, loving woman hidden beneath the shallow veneer of her family’s vanity.
Now, standing under the chandelier, watching her smile as her father mocked an abused, freezing child who had done nothing but defend her father’s name, the last remaining trace of human sentiment burned out of my soul.
“You’re sure about this, Claire?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm:
“You want the legal separation formalized before the holidays conclude?”
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” Claire sneered, taking a slow sip of her champagne:
