The next morning, Matilda arrived at John’s office, gripping the divorce papers tightly. She sank into the cold leather chair opposite him, her heart pounding in her chest. John silently examined the documents, his brow furrowed in concentration, the tension building in the room.
After a long pause, John looked up, his face a mix of sympathy and frustration. “I’m sorry, Matilda,” he said gently. “Vincent has covered every angle. The terms are ironclad. You’re left with almost nothing—just the house and your retirement fund.”