My husband called while I was at work and said, ‘I just inherited millions of dollars. Pack your bags. Get out of my house immediately!’ When I got home, the divorce papers were ready.

I read each page, signed without trembling, put the pen back on the table, and smiled: ‘Good luck… you’ll need it.’
The conference room had gone completely silent. Twelve pairs of eyes stared at me as my phone vibrated for the third time in thirty seconds. I tried to ignore it, continuing my presentation on quarterly financial projections, but the buzzing felt like a drill against my hip.

My manager, Richard, gave me a pointed look. I was two slides away from finishing when my phone rang out loud this time, the ringtone echoing off the glass walls. “I’m so sorry,” I said, my cheeks burning as I pulled the phone from my blue blazer pocket.

Preston’s name flashed across the screen. My husband never called during work hours. Never.

We had an understanding about that. Something must be wrong. “Excuse me for just one moment,” I said, stepping into the hallway.

My heart hammered in my chest as I answered. “Preston, is everything okay? Are you hurt?”

“Camila?” His voice was different.

Unfamiliar. “I need you to listen very carefully.”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing’s wrong.

Everything is finally right.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t the warm sound I’d known for eight years. This laugh had edges to it—sharp and cruel. “My grandmother passed away two weeks ago.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.