One day I found lipstick on a receipt. The shade was called Temptress Red. I wasn’t offended.
I made a note. The final confirmation came two weeks before Christmas. Brandon had a few drinks and fell asleep on the couch with his phone unlocked.
I glanced down as a message thread flickered to life. Em, she doesn’t suspect a thing. I’ll file on Christmas.
Want front row seats? Attached was a laughing emoji and a gif of a woman sobbing into a tissue. My fingers didn’t tremble. My stomach didn’t turn.
I read the message twice, screenshot it, and emailed it away. Then I deleted it from the conversation entirely. That night, as I lay beside him, I stared at the ceiling and thought about candles, cranberries, and carved turkey.
Christmas. He was planning my downfall like a party trick. He thought I’d break.
But I’d already chosen the date. The witnesses. The setting.
He wasn’t the only one with a performance prepared. Because he’d forgotten something critical. When you hand someone a knife, you don’t get to act surprised when they learn how to wield it.
The Christmas table gleamed like something out of a magazine. Perfect, curated, falsely warm. A flickering garland framed the windows, candles flickered in glass holders, and the roast turkey glistened beneath Brandon’s carving knife as he grinned like the proud patriarch.
He wore the sweater I bought him last year, maroon with small reindeer stitched across the chest. The irony of that, me dressing the man plotting my undoing, was not lost on me. My sister, Beth, passed around her famous spiced wine, cheeks flushed from both the heat and the alcohol.
Brandon’s parents chatted about their retirement plans. Everyone looked so content, so unaware. I moved among them like a hostess on autopilot, refilling glasses, smiling with my teeth but not my eyes.
Beneath my dress, my legs trembled, not with fear but with anticipation. My heart beat a steady rhythm. Tonight.
Tonight. Tonight. Brandon caught my eye once while slicing the turkey and winked.
He had a look about him, overconfident, self-satisfied, the way he used to look before his sales pitches closed. I matched his smile with one of my own, warm and unreadable. Let him believe he’d won.
Best bird yet, his dad said, chewing with gusto. Steph’s perfected the recipe, Brandon added, placing the platter on the table like a trophy. She’s had plenty of practice.
What is this, our seventh Christmas? Eighth, I corrected gently, sitting across from him. He raised his glass. Well, here’s to eight more.
Or however many we last. His voice held that cruel lilt again, the one he coded in humor to keep his jabs casual, deniable. Laughter rose around the table.
I chuckled too, brushing a nonexistent crumb from my napkin. As plates emptied and the buzz of wine settled into the room, I noticed Brandon’s best friend, Nate, whisper something in his ear. Nate was already tipsy, eyes glassy, smirk lopsided.
Brandon nodded and stood up, slowly tapping his glass with a butter knife. All right, he said, clearing his throat. Before dessert, I have a little something for my lovely wife.
I glanced at Beth, who gave me a smile of genuine delight, expecting maybe a necklace or a handwritten note. Brandon reached into his blazer, pulled out an envelope and walked over with the smugness of a man who believed he was delivering a grand finale. Merry Christmas, babe, he said, placing it in front of me.
A quiet chuckle escaped Nate. No one else laughed. The envelope was out of place, plain white, no bow, no card.
I looked at it for a moment before opening it calmly. The table hushed. My eyes scanned the first line.
Petition for dissolution of marriage. Already signed. Already filed.
He had even highlighted a section at the bottom like a schoolboy showing off his work. I looked up. His smile was wide.
Expectant. So I smiled back. Thank you, I said softly, almost sweetly.
Pause. A flicker of confusion passed across his face. Nate shifted uncomfortably beside him.
I reached into my clutch and pulled out a sleek silver pen. Clicked it. Signed the papers in one elegant stroke.
Dated it. Capped the pen and handed them back. Done.
I could feel Beth’s stare on me wide-eyed. Brandon blinked, caught off guard. That’s it, he asked, voice too casual.
That’s it, I echoed sliding the envelope back toward him. Then without missing a beat I reached under the table and lifted a gold-wrapped box, placing it right between his plate and his ego. What’s this, he asked.
Your real gift, I said. He hesitated then tore at the wrapping revealing a leather folder. He opened it and the moment he read the first line the color drained from his face.
His lips moved silently for a moment, reading. Rereading. Dated.
Notarized. Earnclad. The prenup he had laughed through.
Signed with the same hand now clutching the edge of the table. What is this? Nate asked leaning in. Brandon didn’t answer.
So I did. It’s the agreement Brandon signed nearly a year ago. It’s been updated, reinforced and filed.
But. I filed first, Brandon said as if that nullified reality. Which makes it legally binding under your terms, I replied with a calm smile.
Every asset. Every clause. You gave it to me.
Nate’s mouth parted slightly. Holy. You okay man? Beth’s husband asked from across the table.
Brandon didn’t respond. His eyes were still glued to the document. The same eyes that once scanned spreadsheets and contracts for inconsistencies missed this one glaring clause in his own life.
And then I reached into my purse again. One last thing, I said. I placed a small square envelope on the table, thinner than the first.
He stared at it as if it might explode. He opened it slowly, brows furrowed. Inside was a sonogram photo.
Brandon looked at it, then at me. I’m pregnant, I said my voice even. Eight weeks today.
His expression cracked just slightly. His eyes darted around the table. For a fleeting moment he smiled, almost involuntarily.
But that smile withered the moment his brain caught up to his ego. Prenup. Pregnancy.
Assets. Custody. The room felt like it was tilting.