The cracks widened over time. He snapped if the towels weren’t folded “his way,” ignored me when I was sick, and insulted my mother for daring to visit. But I endured it all—until I couldn’t.
One day, after back-to-back meetings, I collapsed. Woke up in the hospital with tubes in my arm and a doctor telling me I had pancreatic cancer. Early-stage, treatable—but I’d need to fight.
I texted Brandon. No response. Called. Voicemail. I started treatment alone, my body weakening but my resolve hardening. Days later, he finally appeared. Not with flowers, not with concern—just a manila folder.
“I’m filing for divorce,” he said flatly. “You’ll be gone soon. I’m keeping the house and car.”
I stared at him. My pulse didn’t rise. Instead, I nodded. “Take whatever you want.”
He blinked, confused by how calm I was.
But he didn’t know what I was planning.
The next morning, I called Eric—my CFO and one of the few people who knew who I really was. We met quietly. I terminated the contract with VitalTech, Brandon’s employer—my company had been their biggest supplier. Within hours, VitalTech’s CEO was on the phone with me.
“We were surprised,” he said. “May I ask why?”
I told him: “One of your employees crossed the line. Disrespect. Misuse of funds. His name is Brandon Scott.”
That afternoon, Brandon came home pale. “I got laid off,” he muttered.