“You forgot your bag, Richard,” I said, my voice echoing across the room. “And you might want to tell Diane that the Visa card is frozen. The jeweler in Chicago is going to want the bracelet back.”
Diane’s face went red.
She turned and tried to slip out the back door, but everyone was staring at her.
Richard looked down at the golf bag, then up at me.
His eyes were wide with a mixture of rage and terror.
“We can talk about this, Clara,” he whispered.
“You wanted your own accounts,” I said. “Now you have them.”
Two police officers walked into the ballroom.
They walked straight to the podium, grabbed Richard’s arms, and clicked handcuffs around his wrists.
They led him out through the crowd of his former colleagues, who turned their backs as he passed.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream.
I just watched him go.
The aftermath was messy, but I didn’t care.
Richard pleaded guilty to grand theft and corporate fraud.
To avoid prison, he had to sign over his entire share of our joint assets to me, including our house and his remaining personal savings.
He is currently working as an hourly clerk at a hardware store in Peoria, living in a studio apartment above a garage.
His Mercedes was repossessed.
His golf club membership was revoked.
His retirement fantasy is completely dead.
As for me, I sold our house in Rockford.
I couldn’t stand looking at that guest room.
I bought a small, beautiful condo in Savannah, Georgia.
This morning, I sat on my balcony, drinking fresh coffee and looking at the oak trees covered in Spanish moss.
The air was warm and smelled of salt and jasmine.
My phone buzzed.
It was a text from Arthur.
He had sent me a photo of a booking confirmation for a two-week cruise to Alaska.
“You earned this, Clara,” Arthur texted.
I smiled, taking a sip of my coffee.
I don’t clip coupons anymore.
I don’t look at the prices at the grocery store.
I looked at the blue sky, feeling the warm breeze on my face.
For the first time in 20 years, my life belongs entirely to me, and the future has never looked brighter.
