I stared at the ruby-red wine in my crystal glass, swirling it absently as I listened to my husband's feeble protestations. The midday sunlight streamed through the windows of our Lockwood home, casting long shadows across the ornate carpet—much like the shadow Lysander had cast over my life for decades.
"Rowena, be reasonable," Lysander pleaded, his voice grating on my already frayed nerves. "You cannot simply decide to divorce me after all these years."
I took another sip of wine, savoring its sharp bite. I rarely drank before evening, but today called for exception. Today, I was reclaiming my life.
"I believe I just did exactly that," I replied coolly. "Your belongings are being packed as we speak. I expect you to be gone by nightfall."
