Six professional movers waited in the foyer.
My operations manager, Leah, stood beside me holding a tablet containing our inventory.
Eric stared through the front windows.
“What the hell is this?”
“My personal things.”
His face changed.
Behind him, Marissa appeared at the top of the stairs wearing one of Eric’s shirts.
That hurt.
Not because I wanted him back.
Because nine years of marriage deserved more dignity than that.
She descended slowly.
“You’re taking furniture?”
I turned toward the first mover.
“Start with the living room.”
Eric laughed.
“The sofa stays.”
I opened a folder.
“Brooks Design Studio invoice 3187. Custom cream velvet sofa. Purchased March 14, four years ago. Paid through company operating account.”
I handed him the document.
His eyes moved down the page.
Then toward the rug.
I handed him another invoice.
“Personally purchased in Marrakech.”
“The coffee table?”
Another sheet.
“Brooks Design Studio.”
“The chairs?”
“Mine.”
“The lamps?”
“Mine.”
“The painting?”
“Mine.”
Marissa stared around the room.
“What exactly belongs to Eric?”
I looked at the fireplace.
“The house.”
Then I pointed toward an ugly brown recliner in the corner.
“And that chair.”
Eric’s father had owned it.
One of the movers coughed to hide a laugh.
Eric didn’t.
Within twenty minutes, the cream sofa disappeared beneath moving blankets.
Then the chairs.
Then the tables.
The rug rolled up.
The paintings came down.
The lamps vanished.
By nine fifteen, the living room looked like a rental property after an eviction.
Empty walls. Bare hardwood. One brown recliner.
Eric followed me into the dining room.
“You can’t do this.”
I pointed at the twelve-seat walnut dining table.
“Mine.”
“Natalie—”
“The chairs too.”
The chandelier was staying because it had been installed as a fixture, and I wasn’t interested in fighting over electrical wiring.
The sideboard?
Mine.
The bar cart?
Mine.
The crystal decanters?
Wedding gifts jointly owned, so I left them.
I wasn’t trying to punish him.
That distinction mattered to me.
I was taking what belonged to me.
Nothing more.
But when someone has spent years assuming your contributions are simply part of the scenery, watching that scenery disappear feels remarkably similar to punishment.
At nine forty, Eric called his attorney.
I heard him shouting from the study.
When he returned, his face was red.
“The prenup doesn’t let you gut the house.”
“It lets each party retain separately owned property.”
“You’re being vindictive.”
“No. Vindictive would be taking your father’s recliner.”
Marissa crossed her arms.
“What are we supposed to do?”
For the first time that morning, I nearly laughed.
Instead I said, “Ikea delivers.”
Her face hardened.
“You think you’re clever.”
“No, Marissa. I think I kept receipts.”
The movers continued.
Bedroom furniture I had purchased.
Gone.
Guest-room artwork.
Gone.
Office chairs purchased by Brooks Design Studio.
Gone.
Outdoor furniture.
Gone.
Even the custom wine refrigerator had technically belonged to my company. It had been ordered for a client who changed specifications before delivery. Eric liked it, so I installed it at home.
At 10:17, two movers began shifting the enormous media cabinet in the family room.
