My mother-in-law hurled a pot of boiling grease over me because I refused to sign over my inheritance, while my husband stood over me and sneered, “I’m divorcing you.

Three months into their incarceration, the reality of their situation had fully broken Julian. He had lost thirty pounds. His tailored suits were replaced by an ill-fitting jumpsuit. The arrogant, wealthy CEO was gone, leaving behind a terrified, desperate fraudster.

One afternoon, my cell phone rang with a call from the county jail. I knew who it was. I accepted the charges and pressed the phone to my ear, remaining completely silent.

“Clara?” Julian’s voice came through the line, trembling, pathetic, and broken. “Clara, please don't hang up. Please.”

I didn't say a word. I just listened to him unravel.

“I am so sorry,” he wept, the sound echoing hollowly from the prison payphone. “I was out of my mind with the business stress. My mother... my mother manipulated me! She told me you were holding out on us out of spite. She threw the oil, Clara! I didn't want her to hurt you!”

I let out a soft, dark chuckle. “I have the recording, Julian. You didn't stop her. You watched me scream on the floor, and you told me I was a repulsive monster. You tried to extort me for medical care.”

“I was panicked! I wasn't thinking straight!” he begged. “Clara, please. The federal prosecutor is offering me twenty years. Twenty years! I’ll die in here. Tell them you forgive me. Tell them it was a misunderstanding. I’ll sign whatever you want. I’ll give you the divorce. Just please, call off your lawyers.”

“You have nothing left to give me, Julian,” I said, my voice as cold as absolute zero. “You are bankrupt. Your mistress abandoned you. Your reputation is annihilated. I don't need you to give me the divorce; a judge is granting it to me by default next week because you are a convicted felon.”