But for some reason, the spot on my hand where his thumb had pressed still burned.
Contract in hand, I walked out through the front doors of Fox Group with my head held high.
Then I slipped quietly into the parking garage next door, heading for the familiar stairwell.
That dark stairwell was the home I'd found for myself last night.
I carefully pulled the necklace from my pocket and looked at it, my talisman.
I remembered what Cindy had told me. "Keep this. Whenever you're in trouble, you can go to my family for help."
She had been that gentle. That kind.
My phone chimed. I opened the message on reflex.
"You're living like a dog right now. Isn't that exhausting? Come crawling back and beg me, and I'll toss you some scraps."
"I didn't cheat! Stop making things up! The divorce was YOUR fault!"
"The house was just a bad investment! And going to your company wasn't even my idea!"
"You'll never get rid of me! If I go down, you're coming with me!"
My ex-husband.
Since the divorce, he'd been cycling endlessly between insults, threats, and pleas for reconciliation.
I never replied. The most effective way to deal with someone like him was to cut all contact, to give him nothing to work with.