I Took My Wife To A Party. She Left With Another Man Because He’s Rich. He Threw A Dollar Bill On…

“I didn’t know!” he stammered. “She never said—I thought you were just some—”

“Some what?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Some nobody? Some guy who didn’t matter? Some blue-collar loser who you could throw a dollar at and laugh about?”

He didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Patricia came back with the file, handed it to me like it was radioactive, and sat down quickly. I opened it, flipped through a few pages for dramatic effect, and then looked up at Gavin.

“It says here that employees are expected to maintain professional conduct both during and outside work hours, especially when representing the company at official functions. Would you say throwing money at your boss and propositioning his wife falls under professional conduct?”

“I wasn’t—it was just a joke! I didn’t mean—”

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said, closing the file with a satisfying thump. “You’re fired, effective immediately. Conduct unbecoming of an executive. You can clean out your desk within the hour, escorted by security. Your final paycheck will be mailed to your address on file. Your benefits end today. And if you try to file wrongful termination, my lawyers will be very happy to discuss your relationship with my wife and your misuse of company time and resources in court.”

Gavin’s face went from pale to red to pale again.

“You can’t! This isn’t—”

“I absolutely can, and it absolutely is,” I said. “Patricia, can you call security to escort Mr. Cross to his office and then off the premises?”

“Already texted them,” Patricia said, not looking up from her phone. “They’ll be here in two minutes.”

We sat there in silence waiting for security to arrive. Gavin looked like he wanted to crawl inside a vent and die, or maybe run screaming from the building, or possibly just dissolve into the floor. I felt nothing but cold satisfaction—the kind of calm that comes from finally taking action after days of impotent rage.

Security arrived—two guys named Marcus and Jeff, who I had hired specifically because they looked intimidating but were actually giant teddy bears who coached youth football. They escorted Gavin out without incident, though I’m pretty sure Marcus accidentally bumped him into a doorframe on the way. The meeting ended shortly after, with everyone looking shell-shocked and avoiding eye contact with me.

I didn’t care. I went back to my office, had another coffee, and waited for the fallout. It came three hours later in the form of a voicemail on Miranda’s phone.

She’d apparently changed her number but forgotten to update it with people, so the voicemail got forwarded to our home phone, which then got forwarded to my phone because technology is wonderful when it’s on your side. Gavin’s voice came through the speaker, high-pitched and panicked.

“You didn’t tell me your husband is the owner of my company! You said he was just some—you said he built grills! You didn’t mention he owned the whole goddamn business! I just got fired, Miranda! Fired because of you! Because you couldn’t be bothered to mention that your husband signs my paychecks!”

There was more, but I stopped listening because I was too busy laughing. Music to my ears.

The Death Rattle of Credibility

The week between Gavin’s firing and our first court date was a masterclass in watching someone’s carefully constructed life fall apart in real time. Miranda tried calling me approximately 67 times, each call going straight to voicemail because Jack had been very clear: no contact. Everything goes through lawyers. Protect yourself from doing something stupid.

She left messages that ranged from apologetic to angry to desperate, cycling through emotional states like she was trying to find the right frequency to make me cave.

“We need to talk!” “You’re being unreasonable!” “Think about the kids!” “How could you do this to me?”

That last one was particularly rich coming from a woman who’d been spending my money on hotel rooms with her boyfriend. She also tried using the kids as messengers, which was about as low as you could go without actually digging a hole. Noah shut her down immediately, told her to stop putting him in the middle of adult problems.

The twins were less diplomatic. Marcus told her she made her bed and now she could sleep in it—preferably in a hotel since that seemed to be her favorite place. Maya just hung up on her after a 30-second lecture about personal responsibility.

Hazel cried, which broke my heart, but even she understood on some level that Mommy had done something really wrong and Daddy wasn’t the bad guy here. Miranda moved in with her sister Denise, who lived in a condo in Green Hills and had always thought I wasn’t good enough for her baby sister. Denise had a spare bedroom, an inflated sense of importance, and a wine habit that could fund a small country.

I imagine the two of them sitting around b**ching about men and drinking Chardonnay while pretending Miranda was the victim in all this. That image sustained me through several difficult moments. Jack kept me updated on the legal maneuvering happening behind the scenes.

Miranda’s lawyer—some guy named Robert Peton who apparently specialized in “high conflict divorces,” which is lawyer code for “I represent terrible people”—was trying to paint me as controlling, financially abusive, and emotionally distant. They were building a narrative where Miranda was the neglected wife who’d made one mistake, and I was the tyrannical husband who’d overreacted by locking her out and firing her boyfriend. It was creative fiction; I’ll give them that much.

“They’re going to try to make you look like the bad guy,” Jack warned me over coffee three days before our court date. “They’ll say you humiliated her publicly, that you abused your power as an employer, that you’re trying to punish her instead of working on the marriage. Standard playbook for someone who got caught cheating.”

“Let them try,” I said, feeling calm in a way that probably should have worried me. “We’ve got 40,000 in receipts that say otherwise.”

“Oh, we’ve got more than that now,” Jack said, grinning like a kid who just discovered where his parents hid the Christmas presents. “Clara found three more accounts Miranda opened in her name only. She’s been siphoning money for over a year. Total damages are close to 70 grand.”

I felt my blood pressure spike.

“$70,000?”

“$70,000 of your money used to fund an affair, hidden in accounts she thought you’d never find.”

Jack slid a folder across the table—bank statements, transfer records, everything documented and notarized.

“She’s cooked, Darren. Absolutely cooked.”

The day of the hearing arrived with all the joy of a root canal. I wore my court suit—different from my funeral suit, specifically purchased for legal proceedings because, apparently, I needed a wardrobe category for “days when your wife tries to rob you in front of a judge.” Jack met me at the courthouse steps, looking sharp in navy blue and carrying a briefcase that probably cost more than my first car.

“Remember,” he said as we walked through security. “Stay calm. Answer questions directly. Don’t volunteer information. And for the love of God, don’t let them bait you into losing your temper.”

“I’m calm,” I said, and I was. I’d moved past anger into something colder and more focused. I wanted justice, documentation, and my life back, in that order.

The courtroom was smaller than I expected, more like a conference room with wood paneling and delusions of grandeur. Judge Catherine Morrison presided—a woman in her early 60s with steel-gray hair and the kind of expression that suggested she’d heard every lie humanity could produce and wasn’t impressed by any of them. She looked at both parties with equal skepticism, which I took as a good sign.