The SUV was mine — my father gave it to me before the wedding, in my name, and Gabriel had simply started driving it because it made him look successful. The apartment was mine too, though Gabriel didn’t fully understand the arrangement. My father, who had watched Gabriel for years with the flat assessing gaze of a man who’s commanded troops, had made sure of that. “Make sure you learn who he is before you tell him who you are,” he’d said. I’d learned. Gabriel was a man who would hand a woman twelve dollars and a bus ride five days after surgery and drive off in her car to impress his mother.
I didn’t need my father’s stars to leave him. I needed them to make sure that when I left, I left with everything that was already mine, and Gabriel left with exactly what he’d brought to the marriage, which was nothing.
Chapter 3: The Parking Lot
I did not confront Gabriel. My father was very clear: do not warn him. So while Gabriel ate his lunch, laughing in my car about his ordinary wife riding the bus, my father’s people and my attorney moved with the quiet efficiency of a well-run operation.
By the time Gabriel walked out of the restaurant, full and pleased with himself, there was a woman standing beside my SUV. Professional, calm, holding a folder.
“Mr. Gabriel? This vehicle is registered solely to Caroline Remington. She’s revoking your permission to operate it, effective now. I’ll need the keys. Your personal belongings can be collected from the curb.”
I’m told his face did something remarkable. I’m told he laughed, at first, and then tried to argue, and then tried to call me, and I did not answer, because my attorney had advised me not to, and because I was home by then — my real home, not the apartment, but my father’s house, where Theodore was asleep in a bassinet and I was, for the first time in five days, being taken care of instead of dismissed.
