“And I don’t?”
He shrugged.
“You’re still living in the past.”
I stared at him.
The past.
The years we’d spent building the company.
The contracts.
The late nights.
The money I’d invested.
The sacrifices I’d made.
All of it had become something he wanted to erase.
Julian filed for divorce three months later.
He hired three expensive attorneys.
And presented a prenuptial agreement he believed would protect everything he owned.
He claimed the company was his separate business.
He argued that I’d contributed nothing meaningful to its growth.
He described me as financially dependent.
Unemployed.
And incapable of supporting our twin sons.
Then he demanded primary custody.
I was stunned.
Not because I believed he’d win.
But because I couldn’t understand how the man who’d watched me raise our children could tell a court I was unfit to care for them.
Oliver and Owen were nine.
They loved their father.
