Chapter 2 - The Number Anthony Already Knew
The papers felt heavier than paper should.
Petition for divorce.
Temporary financial restraining order.
Request for disclosures.
Notice regarding preservation of financial records.
There were legal terms I didn't understand and sentences I reread three times before they made sense.
But one thing was immediately clear.
Anthony had moved faster than I had.
I called Melissa from the parking garage.
"He filed."
"I assumed he would."
"There's something about accounts."
"Do not transfer, withdraw, hide, sell, or dispose of anything unusual."
"I wasn't going to."
That was a lie.
The night before, my sister had told me to move ten thousand dollars into an account in my name.
I had nearly done it.
Now I was grateful I hadn't.
Melissa continued.
"Email me every page."
"Can he freeze me out?"
"He can't simply leave you unable to pay ordinary living expenses. But the status quo matters now."
"What about my credit cards?"
"Use them for normal expenses."
"What counts as normal?"
"Not weekends at luxury hotels."
I closed my eyes.
"I understand."
"Do you?"
The question stung.
"I'm not judging you," she said. "I'm trying to prevent you from making this worse."
That became the theme of the next three months.
Don't make this worse.
The trouble was, almost everything I had done for the previous eighteen months had already made it worse.
Anthony stopped depositing extra spending money into the joint account.
He continued paying the mortgage.
Utilities.
Insurance.
My car payment.
Basic household costs.
But the casual transfers ended.
For the first time since quitting my job, I had to look at the numbers.
Actually look.
There was approximately $11,000 in checking.
$27,000 in savings.
Anthony's 401(k).
A smaller retirement account from my dental-office years.
Equity in the condo.
Two vehicles.
Investment accounts Anthony had started before we married and continued funding afterward.
Credit-card debt.
A personal loan I had barely thought about.
And then there were the expenses Melissa called "dissipation candidates."
That phrase became my nightmare.
Every transaction associated with the affairs had to be identified.
Ryan and I had eaten at expensive restaurants.
I bought concert tickets.
I covered a room in Los Angeles.
Evan had borrowed money once after claiming he needed to repair his car.
Two thousand dollars.
He never paid it back.
I had bought clothes specifically for weekends Anthony thought I was spending with friends.
Cash withdrawals were harder to explain.
"So what happens?" I asked Melissa during our second meeting.
"Anthony's attorney argues those funds were spent for purposes unrelated to the marriage and should be credited against your share."
"All of it?"
"They'll try."
"That's ridiculous."
Melissa leaned back.
"Why?"
The bluntness shocked me.
"We were married. The money was mine too."
"So if Anthony had secretly spent twenty thousand dollars on another woman, would you consider half of that your contribution to his affair?"
I didn't answer.
She nodded.
"Exactly."
I began to hate meetings with Melissa because she refused to tell me what I wanted to hear.
My friends did the opposite.
"He's trying to punish you."
"You were married nine years. You deserve support."
"He can't just leave you with nothing."
"Ask for the condo."
"Ask for half his retirement."
"Make him pay your attorney fees."
Some of that advice was legally possible.
But possibility and certainty were not the same.
Then came the alimony discussion.
I had assumed this would be straightforward.
Anthony made substantially more.
I made nothing.
Nine years was not a short marriage.
Therefore, I believed I would receive monthly support.
Melissa asked what I had earned before quitting.
"Forty-seven thousand."
"Could you return to similar work?"
"I guess."
"Any reason you cannot work full-time?"
"No."
"Medical limitations?"
"No."
"Are you caring for children?"
"No."
The questions felt insulting.
"I supported Anthony too."
"Explain."
"I handled the house."
"How much?"
"What?"
"How much did you handle?"
I thought.
Anthony had always done his own laundry because he preferred it.
We hired cleaners twice a month.
We ordered food frequently.
He handled repairs.
I scheduled appointments sometimes.
Bought groceries.
Decorated.
I suddenly hated where the conversation was going.
Melissa looked at me.
"Did you leave your career to raise children?"
"No."
"To care for a sick relative?"
"No."
"At Anthony's request?"
I hesitated.
"No."
"He wanted you to keep working?"
"Yes."
That word landed like a stone.
Melissa closed the file.
"Then opposing counsel will argue that your unemployment is voluntary."
"So I get no alimony?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you think it's possible."
"Yes."
My anger flared.
"Then what was the point of being married?"
Melissa's expression sharpened.
"Marriage isn't an insurance policy against employment."
I stared at her.
For the first time, I understood why Anthony had chosen his attorney quickly.
He knew me.
He knew I would enter this process believing the legal system would automatically replace the life I had destroyed.
And he had prepared for exactly that.
The temporary hearing occurred six weeks later.
Anthony sat across the courtroom.
It was the first time I had seen him since the night he left.
He looked different.
Not dramatically.
Just rested.
His beard had been trimmed.
He had lost maybe ten pounds.
He wore a charcoal suit.
He didn't look at me.
That bothered me more than anger would have.
His attorney, Natalie Ford, was around forty and frighteningly calm.
When my temporary support request came up, she stood.
"Your Honor, Mrs. Bennett is thirty-seven years old, healthy, employable, professionally experienced, and voluntarily resigned from a position paying approximately forty-seven thousand dollars annually."
Melissa responded.
"Mrs. Bennett has been financially dependent on her husband for eighteen months, a situation Mr. Bennett voluntarily maintained."
Natalie didn't react.
"Mr. Bennett maintained the marital household while repeatedly encouraging his spouse to seek employment."
She held up printed messages.
My stomach dropped.
Anthony had saved them.
Text after text.
Anthony: Did you hear back from the clinic?
Me: Didn't apply.
Anthony: You said you were going to.
Me: I don't want to spend my life answering phones.
Another:
Anthony: We're spending way above budget. Can we sit down tonight?
Me: Not tonight.
Another:
Anthony: I need you to help with expenses.
Me: You make enough.
I wanted to disappear.
The judge read quietly.
Then looked at me.
"Mrs. Bennett, when was the last time you applied for employment?"
I swallowed.
"I've been dealing with the divorce."
"Before the divorce."
"I don't remember."
"Approximately."
"Maybe... last year."
"So no applications in the past twelve months?"
"No."
The judge nodded.
He did not award the temporary amount we requested.
He did order Anthony to continue certain household expenses while the case proceeded.
But the message was unmistakable.
Get a job.
Outside court, I confronted Anthony.
He had almost reached the elevator.
"You saved my texts?"
He stopped.
Natalie looked between us.
Anthony said, "They were on my phone."
"You made me look terrible."
His eyes met mine.
"I didn't write them."
I flinched.
"Are you enjoying this?"
"No."
"Because it feels like revenge."
Something sad crossed his face.
"For you, consequences always feel like revenge."
The elevator opened.
He stepped inside.
I followed before Natalie could stop me.
"Anthony."
He sighed.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
He looked away.
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know."
That gave me hope.
Tiny.
Dangerous hope.
"Could we talk without attorneys?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because every time I talked to you before attorneys, you convinced me I was unreasonable for expecting basic respect."
The doors opened.
He stepped out.
I followed again.
"Are you seeing someone?"
He stopped.
His face hardened.
"That is none of your business."
The answer devastated me.
Not because it meant yes.
Because he was right.
It wasn't my business anymore.
Over the next month, I applied for jobs.
At first, reluctantly.
Then seriously.
Dental offices.
Medical reception.
Scheduling coordinator.
Insurance assistant.
I discovered eighteen months outside the workforce wasn't catastrophic.
Within three weeks, I had interviews.
Within five, I received an offer.
$51,500.
More than I had made before quitting.
When I told Melissa, she smiled for the first time.
"Take it."
"Doesn't that hurt the alimony claim?"
"Possibly."
"Then why would I—"
She stared at me.
I stopped.
There it was again.
The mentality I was beginning to recognize in myself.
I was considering staying unemployed because employment might reduce money I could demand from Anthony.
For the first time, I heard how ugly it sounded.
I accepted the job.
The first week was brutal.
Alarm at six.
Traffic.
Emails.
Patients.
Schedules.
Coworkers.
Responsibility.
But something unexpected happened.
I felt useful.
My paycheck arrived two weeks later.
I stared at the deposit.
It wasn't enough to maintain the life Anthony had funded.
But it was mine.
I bought groceries that evening.
For the first time in over a year, I didn't use money Anthony earned.
I cried in my car afterward.
Not because I was proud.
Because I remembered who I had been before I convinced myself that being supported meant being entitled.
Then discovery began.
Bank statements.
Depositions.
Valuations.
Every dollar seemed to acquire a history.
One afternoon, Melissa called.
"Anthony's side submitted their property proposal."
My heart raced.
"How much?"
"Thirty-eight percent to you."
I nearly laughed.
"Thirty-eight?"
"Yes."
"They're insane."
"They're aggressive."
"Nevada is fifty-fifty."
"Generally."
"Then why would I ever agree to thirty-eight?"
Melissa paused.
"Because I haven't told you the second part."
I sat down.
"What second part?"
"They've traced additional spending."
My mouth went dry.
"How much?"
"More than we calculated."
"How?"
"Cash transfers."
"I explained those."
"Not these."
She emailed me a document while we spoke.
I opened it.
There were payment-app transfers.
Restaurants.
Hotel charges.
Withdrawals.
Then one transaction I didn't recognize.
$9,800.
I stared.
"I never spent this."
"Anthony's forensic accountant says it came from the joint savings account."
"I didn't do that."
"It was transferred using your login."
"I didn't."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
Melissa was silent.
Then she said something that made the room tilt.
"The receiving account belongs to someone named Ryan Cole."
I stood so quickly my chair rolled backward.
"No."
"You know him?"
Of course I knew him.
Ryan.
The man who had been in my living room.
The man who said he hadn't known I was married.
The man who had stopped answering my calls the morning Anthony left.
I stared at the transaction date.
It had happened three days after Anthony discovered us.
Three days after Ryan supposedly disappeared from my life.
And I had never sent it.
Then Melissa said, "There's more."
A second transfer had been attempted.
It failed.
The login came from an unfamiliar device.
And someone had changed the recovery email on one of my accounts.
Melissa lowered her voice.
"We need to determine whether someone accessed your finances."
I could barely speak.
"Ryan had my phone once."
"When?"
I remembered the Los Angeles trip.
The hotel.
Drinks.
A moment when I couldn't find my phone.
Ryan returning it twenty minutes later.
My chest tightened.
"What if he stole from us?"
Melissa didn't answer.
Instead, my phone buzzed.
A new message.
Unknown number.
It contained one sentence.
May you like
Don't tell Anthony about the $9,800.
And underneath it was a photograph of me asleep in a hotel bed.
