That was my anniversary gift from Carl. Not jewelry. Not a heartfelt letter. A mop. In front of a room full of guests—and his smug sister Anita, flaunting the gold bracelet he gave her. While they laughed, something in me snapped.I stormed outside and smashed Carl’s beloved sports car with the mop. “Happy anniversary,” I said. But karma wasn’t done. That same night, a concrete planter mysteriously crushed his hood. Anita’s accounts? Frozen. Her shady dealings were catching up. And Carl? Planning to serve me divorce papers after his cruel gift.Too bad for him—I owned the house and 51% of the business. All thanks to papers he once called “just a formality.”
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