My husband’s mistress shaved my head to humiliate me. When I looked in the mirror and saw what had happened to my hair, I didn't scream. I calmly picked up my phone and called my CEO husband. “You have five minutes,” I said. “Tell your mistress to come here, apologize for what she did, or your entire world ends today.” He laughed and hung up. Five minutes later, he realized I wasn't making a threat—I was giving him his very last chance.

Three weeks later.

The suburban estate in Winnetka had been stripped of its furniture.

The sprawling six-bedroom mansion—which Julian had bragged about to his country club friends for years—was completely empty. White sheets covered the marble fireplaces, and the mahogany floors echoed with every step I took.

I walked through the empty living room holding a clipboard, accompanied by an auctioneer from Sotheby's.

"The art pieces in the study have been appraised at two point four million," the auctioneer reported. "The sports car collection in the six-car garage will be listed at the public liquidation auction on Friday."

"Sell everything," I said crisping. "Every car, every painting, every watch left in his safe. The proceeds go directly into the employee pension fund to cover the shortfall Julian created."

"Understood, Mrs. Sterling," the man said, taking his notes and walking toward the terrace.

I stood alone in the center of the grand foyer.

The front door opened.

Julian walked in.

He looked like a ghost of the man he had been a month ago. He was wearing a cheap, off-the-rack suit that was two sizes too big for him. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow and bloodshot, his hands trembling slightly as he carried a single cardboard box containing his personal papers.

He stopped when he saw me standing under the crystal chandelier.

"Sarah," he said, his voice flat, broken, and completely stripped of its old arrogance.

"Julian," I replied smoothly. "You're late. The movers finished clearing the upper floors an hour ago."

Julian set his cardboard box down on the floor, looking around the empty, echoing house.

"You took everything," he whispered. "The house. The cars. The company. My name."

"You lost those things when you decided to break the law, Julian," I said, walking toward him. "I didn't take anything that wasn't legally mine."

Julian looked down at his worn leather shoes. "The bank foreclosed on my personal account this morning. I have twelve hundred dollars left in my name. I'm living in a studio apartment in South Chicago. Do you know what it’s like down there, Sarah? The noise? The smell?"

"I don't care, Julian," I said honestly.

Julian looked up at me, a flicker of his old, ugly desperation surfacing in his eyes. "You really have no heart, do you? After seven years of marriage... you threw me into the dirt without a second thought!"

"Seven years of marriage?" I repeated, laughing softly. "Julian, for seven years I supported your career. I edited your speeches. I fixed your mistakes with the board. I sat at dinners listening to you brag about accomplishments that were built on my money and my family's legacy."

I took two steps toward him, pointing to the short, stylish platinum pixie cut that now framed my face.

"And when I came to your office to bring you lunch," I said, "you stood by and watched a psychotic woman cut my hair while you laughed. You didn't care about my dignity. You didn't care about my heart. You cared about your own convenience."

Julian swallowed hard, unable to meet my gaze.

"Victoria’s trial starts next month," I added. "Her legal team rejected your immunity deal. They submitted text messages proving you coached her on how to bypass the accounting firewalls. The grand jury indicted you yesterday morning on three counts of corporate embezzlement."

Julian’s knees buckled. He grabbed the doorframe to keep from falling. "An indictment? No... no, I can't go to prison, Sarah! I wouldn't last a week in there!"

"Then I suggest you hire a good public defender, Julian," I said, walking past him toward the front porch where my limousine was waiting. "Because Richard Sterling won't help you anymore."

Julian reached out, trying to grab my sleeve, but my security driver instantly stepped between us, shoving Julian back into the doorway.

"Sarah! Please!" Julian sobbed, collapsing onto his knees in the empty, hollow foyer of his former home. "Give me another chance! I’ll do anything! I’ll work in the warehouse! I’ll clean the trucks! Just don't let them put me in prison!"

I stepped into the back of the town car, closing the door behind me.