He tapped the stack of papers.

“This is a post-nuptial agreement. It grants me title to the house and a fifty-percent controlling interest in your design firm. It’s only fair, considering the emotional support I’ve provided you.”

Emotional support.

I almost laughed.

The man who forgot my birthday three years in a row and called my career a “cute little hobby” was talking about emotional support.

“And if I don’t sign?” I asked, walking slowly toward the desk.

“Then I file for divorce,” he said, his eyes gleaming with predatory light. “And I will drag it out. I will freeze your assets. I will ruin your reputation in this town. My lawyer, Lionel, says I have a very strong case for spousal support. I’ve become accustomed to a certain lifestyle, you see. But if you sign this, we stay married. We work it out. I just need security.”