I drive home in silence. No radio. No tears. Just the sound of tires on wet pavement and my own breathing.
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway. Ezra's car isn't here yet. Good. I need time.
I walk straight to his closet. The door swings open and there they are—rows of suits in garment bags. Custom Brioni. Italian wool. Each one cost more than I made in a month at the market. I paid for every single one.
I go back to the kitchen and pull my filleting knife from my work bag. The blade catches the overhead light. I've sharpened it a thousand times. It's never let me down.
Back in the closet, I unzip the first garment bag. Navy pinstripe. He wore this to his Series A pitch. I slide the blade through the shoulder seam. The fabric parts like butter. I keep cutting. Sleeves. Lapels. Down the back. The suit falls in pieces at my feet.
I move to the next one. Charcoal gray. Then the midnight blue. The knife moves steady and sure. My hands don't shake. I've filleted salmon in worse conditions than this.
Forty thousand dollars of fabric. Gone.
I step over the ribbons of wool and silk and walk to the living room. The painting hangs above the sofa. Sixty thousand dollars. Ezra bought it for Marigold three months ago. He said it was a company investment. I found the receipt in his desk drawer. It was addressed to her apartment.
I pull the painting off the wall. Set it flat on the floor. Go to Ezra's office and find the bottle of India ink he keeps for signing important documents. Pretentious bastard.
I unscrew the cap and pour. The ink spreads across the canvas in a black pool. It seeps into the paint. Ruins it completely. I pour until the bottle is empty.
Then I go to the desk and open my laptop. Joint bank account. I know the password. I've been managing this account for ten years while Ezra played entrepreneur.
I transfer every dollar I ever put in. It takes fifteen minutes to calculate. The ledger helps. I kept track of everything. Every debt I paid. Every bill I covered. Every dime that went into his dream.
Eighty-two thousand, four hundred and seventeen dollars.
I move it to my personal account. The one Ezra doesn't know exists. The one I opened two years ago when I started to suspect I might need it.
I pack one suitcase. Jeans. T-shirts. My work boots. The ledger. I don't take anything he bought me. I don't want it.
I pull the divorce papers from my bag—Derek Solis prepared them last year when I first called him. I never filed. I kept thinking things would get better. I was wrong.
I set the papers on the kitchen counter. I slide my wedding ring off my finger and place it on top. The metal clinks against the paper.
I pick up my suitcase and walk out the front door. I don't look back.
The apartment I rent is in Ballard. Small. Bare. The landlord didn't ask questions when I paid first and last month in cash. I have a mattress on the floor, a folding table, and a chair. That's it.
I sit in the dark at four in the morning. Old habit. My body doesn't know how to sleep past this hour anymore. I make coffee in the cheap pot I bought at Goodwill. Black. No sugar.
My phone sits on the table. Silent. I turned off notifications for Ezra's number, but I can still see the messages piling up. Forty-three texts since last night. I don't read them. I don't need to.
I run my thumb across the scar on my right palm. A filleting accident from six years ago. Ten stitches. I was back at work the next morning because we needed the money for Thomas's poker debt.
I don't cry. I'm too tired to cry. Or maybe I'm too empty. I'm not sure which.
Derek calls at nine. "Divorce papers are filed," he says. "He's been served."
"Good," I say.
"Haven, he's going to fight this. He's already calling my office."
"Let him fight."
"He's claiming you destroyed property. The suits. The painting."
"I have receipts," I say. "I paid for all of it."
Derek is quiet for a moment. Then he laughs. It's a short, sharp sound. "You kept receipts."
"I keep everything."
"Jesus, Haven. Remind me never to cross you."
I hang up and open my laptop. I have work to do.
I pull up my supplier list. Ten years of contacts. Fishermen in Alaska. Distributors in Northern California. Cold-storage facilities in Oregon. Every single person who knows my name and knows I deliver.
I start making calls.
"Hey, it's Haven Carpenter. I'm going independent. Are you still looking for a direct buyer?"
The first call leads to an order. Two hundred pounds of king crab. The second call leads to three orders. By noon, I have a dozen commitments.
I set up an LLC online. Haven Carpenter Seafood Co. I write it in the same notebook I used for the ledger. Neat block letters. Black ink.
My phone buzzes. Another text from Ezra. I glance at the preview.
*After everything I did for you. After everything we built together.*
I delete it without opening it.
I go back to work.
