He laughed harder. "You're sick, man." "I prefer methodical." We hung up after a few jokes about Belinda's inevitable meltdown.
I poured another drink and flipped on the TV, but I couldn't focus. My phone buzzed again, this time with a voicemail notification. Curiosity won. I hit play.
Her voice was small and tight. "Oliver, please call me. My card got declined at the pharmacy. I needed to pick up something important."
I smirked. Hope it was humility. I didn't call back. I didn't even feel bad.
This was the woman who'd looked me in the eye and confessed her affair like she was reading a grocery list. She'd earned this little inconvenience. The next morning, I met with Mrs. Delgado again to sign final documents. She had a file thicker than a Bible, neatly tabbed and labeled.
"All you need to do," she said, sliding it across, "is sign here, here, and here. And congratulations, Mr. Carver. You're about to become independently unbothered." I signed each page with the satisfaction of a man autographing his own comeback story.
When I was done, she said, "Now, one last thing. Do you want to freeze her access to the joint car lease?" I grinned. "Absolutely. Let's see how her boss likes playing chauffeur."
She chuckled, tapping a few keys. "Done. Anything else?" I thought about it, then asked, "Can we flag her credit for a review?"
Mrs. Delgado's grin widened. "We can absolutely do that." God, I love this woman. As I was leaving, she said, "You're handling this remarkably well."
"Organization is cheaper than therapy," I said. That earned me a laugh. Driving home, I passed Belinda's office, big glass building full of people pretending to love spreadsheets and pretending not to gossip. For a second, I thought about walking in, giving her boss a polite nod, and saying, "Thanks for the free motivation."
But I had bigger plans. This wasn't about confrontation anymore. This was chess, not checkers. I stopped at a coffee shop instead, got my usual black, and sat by the window.
I started sketching out my next move. If Mrs. Delgado was the attorney of destruction, I needed her counterpart: the accountant of ascension. Someone to help me rebuild smarter, richer, and legally bulletproof. Enter Marcus Chun, CPA and part-time miracle worker.
Tar referred me, said the guy makes the IRS blush. I called him that afternoon. "Marcus Chun," he answered, voice smooth and calm, like a financial therapist. "Hi," I said.
"I'm looking for help untangling some joint finances. Divorce. You're good?" He chuckled. "I'm better than good. I'm efficient. Send me everything."
I emailed him the spreadsheet from Operation Bye-Bye Belinda. He called back in ten minutes. "Sir," he said, "this is immaculate. You categorized emotional damage levels."