You Can't Afford Your Genius Ex-Wife Now

The dining room of the Velasquez estate smelled like stale coffee and polished mahogany. Kailey Randall sat at the head of a table that could seat twenty, but this morning, it only held her. The silence was thick, pressing against her eardrums like a physical weight.

This was it. The last morning.

She pushed back the heavy velvet chair, the legs scraping against the marble floor with a sound that echoed through the empty hall. She didn't belong in this chair. She never had.

Kailey walked up the grand staircase, her fingers trailing lightly over the cold iron banister. Two years. Two years of walking up these steps, sleeping in a room that felt like a museum, and living with a man who looked through her like she was made of glass.

In the bedroom, she bypassed the massive walk-in closet. Racks of designer gowns, shoes that cost more than her childhood home, and bags she never cared to touch lined the walls. They belonged to the Velasquez name. They didn't belong to her.

Instead, she opened the plain wooden dresser in the corner. She pulled out a pair of worn jeans, a white t-shirt, and a gray cardigan. The fabric felt like home against her skin. She changed quickly, balling up the silk pajamas and tossing them into the hamper.

She didn't leave a single thing behind.

Downstairs, Reginald Kent stood by the front door. He was the Velasquez family butler, a man whose face seemed permanently carved from granite. He held a silver tray in his gloved hands. On the tray sat a single sheet of thick cream paper.

"Madam," Kent said. The word was empty, stripped of any respect. He looked right past her shoulder as he spoke.

Kailey took the paper. The divorce agreement. Her eyes scanned the dense legal text, but she didn't need to read it. She had memorized every clause.

At the bottom of the page, Jack Velasquez's signature sat in black ink. It was sharp, hurried, and impatient. The tail of the 'z' slashed across the line like a knife. He couldn't wait to be rid of her.

Her lawyer had called yesterday. "Take the money, Kailey. It's a fortune. You earned it putting up with him."

But she didn't want his money. She wanted something far more valuable.

Kailey pulled a pen from her cardigan pocket. She leaned against the marble console table and signed her name. Kailey Randall. The scratch of the nib was loud in the quiet foyer. Clean. Final.

She placed the pen on the tray. "I'm packed," she said, nodding toward the single canvas suitcase by the door.

Kent's lip curled slightly as he glanced at the battered bag. It was the same bag she had arrived with two years ago. "Mr. Gibson is waiting outside," he said, his tone dripping with dismissal. He made it sound like she was being evicted from a motel.

Kailey didn't flinch. She picked up the suitcase. It was light. It