She Wore My Necklace on Her Ankle

When I found out Mark was cheating, he didn't panic. He didn't deny it.

We talked. We agreed to a divorce. It was all maddeningly civil.

On the way to sign the papers at City Hall, a question I'd buried finally clawed its way out.

Why… why were you so insistent on getting the house? Our first one?

"Oh, that." Mark said it with the breezy indifference of a man ordering coffee. "Chloe gets jealous. She said the only way she'll feel better is if she can personally destroy every trace of me having lived with another woman."

He shook his head, a small, fond smile playing on his lips. The kind of smile you give a charming, mischievous child.

"She's ridiculous."

I stared at him for a few seconds. At the profile of his face, visibly brightened by the simple fact that he was on his way to divorce me.

Then I lifted my purse and smashed it into his nose. Blood went everywhere.



1

I have a knack for compartmentalizing. It's a skill, I suppose. Some might call it emotional detachment.

So when Mark asked for a divorce, I handled it with my usual rational calm. As the guilty party, he readily agreed to give me the lion's share of our marital assets.

The only thing he fought for was our first home.

It was a condo we'd bought when we were twenty-four, scraping together every last cent of our savings. I can still remember getting the keys, standing in the empty shell of a room that smelled of drywall and potential, mapping out a future that felt as boundless as the sky. The pure, uncut joy of that day has never really left me.

Eight years went by. Mark's salary climbed. We bought bigger, better, more beautiful homes. By the time we filed for divorce, we had seven properties to our name. We hadn't lived in that first condo for years. It was in a now-inconvenient neighborhood, the light was poor, and our first attempts at decorating looked painfully amateurish. Compared to the rest of our portfolio, it was barely a footnote.

The only thing it held, really, was the memory of the years when Mark and I were most in love.

So when he insisted on keeping it, I was naive enough to think that, despite everything, he still felt some guilt. That he wanted to hold onto a piece of our ten years together. A testament to the love we once had.

But it was just a toy for his new girl to break.

There was no sentiment. No guilt. He wasn't just a cheater; he was a man who didn't even see me as a person anymore. You don't say things like that, so casually, to someone you respect, not even a little.

I took a deep, steadying breath, studying his profile. He looked happy. Genuinely happy to be divorcing me.

A few seconds passed.

I checked my seatbelt. I scanned the traffic ahead. I glanced around the car's interior, then felt the satisfying, solid weight of my clutch in my hand.

"Mark."

"Yeah?"

The next thing he knew, my purse was connecting with the bridge of his nose, and blood was spraying across the pristine leather dashboard.

2

"Jesus Christ, Sarah, are you insane?"

The sudden, vicious attack had completely blindsided him. His carefully cultivated executive polish vanished, replaced by a raw, guttural curse.

I watched his reaction, my hand ready to grab the steering wheel if needed. The man was about to start a new life; he'd be careful with this one.

Ignoring the blood, he fumbled to pull the car over to the shoulder before turning to glare at me, his eyes wide with fury. He pinched a wad of tissues from the console, pressing them to his nose. His jaw was tight, his voice dripping with disappointment.

"Sarah, I always thought you were smart, that you were calm. That you wouldn't act like some screeching harpy. Can't we do this with a little dignity?"

I let out a short, sharp laugh.

"Dignity?"

"For you, this divorce has been planned for months. You can't wait to run off into the sunset with your little girlfriend. You're happy, everything is going your way. Of course you can afford to have 'dignity.' Your dignity is sincere." I could finally see the lie I'd been telling myself, the hollow performance of being 'fine.' "But me? I'm the one who was betrayed, the one being discarded, the one forced into this scene. Why the hell should I have dignity? That's not dignity. That's being a doormat."

Mark looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. "What do you even want?"

I want you to be miserable. I want you and that little tramp to have the life you deserve.

I stared him down. "I want to let off some steam."

While he was still processing that, my hand shot out. The sharp crack of my palm against his cheek echoed in the small space, a bright red handprint blooming on his skin.

Before I could land another, he caught my wrist, his fingers digging in. "Sarah, don't push it."

"More than you cheating? More than you taking the soup I made for you and giving it to your mistress? More than your little slut sending me photos of you two together while I was in the hospital?" My face was a mask of calm. "No. I'm not signing anything until I get this out of my system."

He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, and a strange, angry laugh escaped his lips. "Wow. Just, wow." He shook his head. "Sarah, I always knew you were selfish and cold, that you never let anyone get one over on you. But I really underestimated you."

But he didn't want any more delays. He couldn't bear the thought of his precious girl having to remain a mistress a moment longer.

Mark closed his eyes, taking a breath. He let the fight go. "Fine. Do what you have to do. Consider it a debt I owe you."

I twisted my wrist free, a humorless smile on my face. "Tsk. What a noble sacrifice for love." I paused. "You make sure you show her that face when you see her. Make sure she appreciates the battle you fought for her today."

And with that, I slapped him again, hard.

3

By the time we got to City Hall, I was actually feeling better.

The mood was ruined by a high-pitched shriek.

Chloe, Mark's mistress, was standing at the entrance. She had a hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with theatrical horror as she stared at Mark.

The girl was dressed for a victory parade. Stiletto heels, a Chanel dress, an Hermès bag slung over her arm. Her makeup was flawless, her hair perfect, her nails immaculate. She was a walking, talking, dazzling monument to youth.

I didn't know if she was here to gloat, to rub her victory in my face, or if she was just so eager to start celebrating her new life with Mark that she couldn't wait another minute.

Whatever her plan was, it was now officially ruined.

She rushed into Mark's arms, her voice trembling as she stroked his bruised face. Tears welled in her eyes. "Mark, baby, did… did that awful woman do this to you?" Her voice rose. "How could she? Why didn't you hit her back?"

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