I stepped out of the lawyer’s office, my expression blank, shoulders drooped, looking like the stereotypical defeated ex-wife. The sky was overcast, the rain pelting down—a perfect match for the façade of misery I wore.

But inside, I was buzzing with anticipation. I gripped the cold handle of the door and headed to the elevator, glad there was no one around to witness what came next.

As soon as the elevator doors slid shut, I couldn’t help it—a giggle slipped out, bubbling up from deep within like champagne finally uncorked. Before I knew it, I was laughing uncontrollably, the sound echoing in the small space like a madwoman.

If anyone had seen me at that moment, they’d think I had lost my mind from all the stress. But no—this was just the beginning. Everything was falling into place.

The house, the car, the money—Mike could have them all. That’s what he wanted, and I was happy to let him think he had won. Little did he know, this was all part of my plan.

As the elevator dinged to a stop, I pulled myself together. My reflection in the mirrored walls showed messy hair, tired eyes, and a smirk that still lingered. But I didn’t care. The real fun was about to begin.

A few weeks earlier…

Mike and I hadn’t been happy for years, but this wasn’t your typical drifting apart. Mike had become obsessed with status—luxury cars, the biggest house, designer clothes. He wanted to project the image of success, and I had played along for far too long. But when the cracks in our marriage deepened, I knew a divorce was inevitable.

It wasn’t the divorce I feared; I knew Mike too well. He didn’t care about saving the relationship—he just wanted to win. To him, victory meant taking everything: the house, the savings, the lifestyle.

What he didn’t realize was that I had my own plans in motion. And if giving him what he wanted was part of that, I was more than willing to play along.

One evening, Mike came home late, as usual. I was in the kitchen, pretending to scroll through my phone, barely acknowledging him when he stormed in.

“We need to talk,” he said, clearly agitated.

I sighed, bored. “What now?”

“I want a divorce,” he snapped, throwing his keys on the counter.

Finally. I had been waiting for this moment for weeks. I nodded calmly, like I was just processing the news, but inside I was smiling.

“Okay,” I said, my voice steady.

He blinked, taken aback. “That’s it? No fight? No begging?”

“What’s the point?” I shrugged, watching as his frustration grew.

He was expecting me to plead, to fight to keep him. But no—this was all going according to plan.

The divorce negotiations were as tedious as I expected. Mike sat across from me, his smug expression barely contained as he outlined every demand: the house, the car, the money—like he was reading off a shopping list.

“Fine,” I said, barely listening. “You can have it all.”

My lawyer gave me a concerned look, but I just nodded. This was all part of the game.