She flinches like I hit her. I don't move.
"Marcus Chun will contact you Monday," I continue. "You should get your own lawyer. Don't talk to Derek again. He won't be much help where he's going."
Tears slide down her face. "Can't we at least try counseling? Please, David. I know I hurt you, but we can rebuild."
"I'm not interested in rebuilding something you already decided to demo," I say. "I'm interested in living with a standard."
I grab a pillow and a blanket from the hall closet. "I'll take the guest room," I add. "You can keep the master until this is done. It'll make the paperwork easier."
I walk down the hallway. Her sobs follow me, bounce off the walls, try to hook into any soft place left inside me. They don't find one.
I close the guest room door, lock it out of habit, and lie on the bed fully clothed. No rage. No bargaining. Just a simple, quiet decision.
This marriage is over.
The next weeks are signatures, dates, division of property, scheduled calls with Marcus, and controlled silence at home. No screaming matches. No dramatic scenes. Just an engine being shut down system by system until it's completely off.
Monday, I get to work 30 minutes early and park where I can see the main entrance. The air's sharp, sky low and gray. It fits.
Security is already posted outside Derek's office when I walk in. No smiles this time. No backslaps. People feel the shift before they see it.
The board files in first. Suits, folders, tight faces. Fifteen minutes later, Derek's called down.
He walks past the service bay with a forced grin, trying to project confidence. He won't look at me. I don't say a word.
An hour later, the door opens. Security leads him out carrying a cardboard box with his life condensed into a few objects. Picture frame, mug, a couple of plaques that won't mean anything at his next interview.
His face is stuck between rage and shock. Men like him don't believe consequences are real until they're holding the box. Our eyes meet once.
He's waiting for a smirk, a victory lap. I give him nothing. Just a flat, uninterested look, like I'm watching a part finally fail after months of bad readings.
By noon, Sarah calls me into her office. "First," she says, "thank you for reporting what you did. It wasn't easy, and you did it professionally."
I nod. "I just wanted it stopped."
"Well, it is." She straightens a stack of papers. "The board approved Derek's termination for cause. As for you, the repair department needs an interim supervisor."
"Based on your performance and how you handled this, we'd like you to step in. If the numbers look good in three months, it becomes permanent."
I think about it for a breath. More responsibility. More pay. More eyes.