**Diary Entry**
*”Even the dog won’t touch your meatballs,”* he laughed, tossing his plate into the bin. The sharp clatter of porcelain against plastic made me flinch.
*”Your cooking isn’t fit for a stray,”* he sneered, nodding at our Labrador, Duke, who turned his nose up at the offered meal.
James wiped his hands on the expensive tea towel I’d bought to match the new kitchen fittings. Obsessed with appearances—only when they reflected on him.
*”Annie, I told you. No home-cooked meals when I’m expecting clients. It reeks of… poverty.”* He spat the word like it left a foul taste.
I studied him—his crisp shirt, the Rolex he never removed, not even at home. For the first time in years, I felt no anger, no urge to apologise. Just ice. A cold, crystal-clear detachment.
*”They’ll arrive in an hour,”* he continued, oblivious. *”Order steaks from The Royal Oak. And the seafood salad. And for God’s sake, do something with yourself. Wear the emerald dress. And tie your hair back—that messy bun makes you look cheap.”*
I nodded mechanically.
The shattered plate lay in shards at my feet, sharp as his insults. I didn’t argue. What was the point? Every attempt to *be better* for him ended the same—humiliation. My sommelier course? *”A hobby for bored housewives.”* My home décor efforts? *”Tacky.”* And now, the food I’d poured hope into, scraped into the bin.
*”Get the good wine,”* he barked into his phone. *”Not that swill Annie brought from her class. Something decent.”*
I dumped the broken pieces, caught my reflection in the oven’s dark glass. A tired woman with hollow eyes. A woman who’d spent too long trying to be *convenient.*
I went upstairs. Not for the dress. I pulled out my old travel bag.
He rang two hours later, as I checked into a budget hotel on the outskirts of Leeds.
*”Where the hell are you?”* Calm, but edged with threat. *”The clients are here. This is embarrassing.”*
*”I’m not coming back, James.”*
*”What? Because of the bloody meatballs? Don’t be childish. Get home.”* Not a request—an order. As if I were a pet to summon.
*”I’m filing for divorce.”*
Silence. Glasses clinked faintly in the background. His evening carried on without me.
*”Fine,”* he said at last, icy amusement in his voice. *”Play the independence card. Let’s see how long you last. Three days?”*
He hung up. To him, I was a malfunctioning appliance.
A week later, we met in his office. He sat at the head of the table, flanked by a slick lawyer. I came alone.
*”Had your tantrum?”* James smirked. *”I’ll forgive you—if you apologise.”*
I slid the divorce papers forward.
His smile vanished. The lawyer cleared his throat. *”My client offers you the car and six months’ support. A generous sum, considering your… lack of income.”*
I opened the folder. The amount was *insulting.*
*”The penthouse remains James’s,”* the lawyer added. *”Pre-marital asset.”*
I exhaled. *”I kept that home spotless. Hosted his clients. Those dinners sealed deals.”*
James scoffed. *”Any housekeeper could’ve done it. You were just… decoration. And lately, cheap decoration.”*
It stung—but instead of tears, fury burned.
*”I won’t sign this.”*
*”Then you get nothing,”* he hissed. *”My lawyers will bury you. You’re nothing without me.”*
I stood. *”We’ll see you in court.”*
The trial was brutal. His team painted me as a gold-digger who threw a fit over *burnt food.* My solicitor—a steely-eyed woman in her sixties—said little. She simply laid out receipts: groceries for his *unsuitable* dinners, dry cleaning for his suits, tickets to networking events *I’d* paid for. Proof I wasn’t a leech—I was an unpaid employee.
The judge awarded me slightly more than James had offered. Not enough. But it wasn’t about money.
It was about refusal to be crushed.
The first months post-divorce were bleak. I rented a shoebox flat in a dodgy part of town. Money was tight. But for the first time in a decade, I slept without dread.
The idea came unexpectedly. One evening, cooking for myself, I realised—I *enjoyed* it. His words echoed: *”Smells like poverty.”* And I thought—*What if poverty could taste luxurious?*
I experimented. Turned humble ingredients into something refined. Those *rejected* meatballs? Now a blend of three meats, drizzled with blackberry glaze. I crafted *restaurant-quality* meals—ready in twenty minutes.
I called it *Dinner by Annie.* A simple social media page. Orders trickled in. Then—Lydia, wife of James’s former client, messaged: *”I remember how he humiliated you. Let me try those infamous meatballs.”*
She didn’t just try them—she raved in her popular lifestyle blog. Orders flooded in.
Six months later, I leased a commercial kitchen. Hired staff. My *gourmet convenience* concept took off.
Then—a supermarket chain approached me for their premium range. My pitch was flawless. I spoke of *taste, efficiency, lifestyle.* When asked my price, I named a figure that made *me* balk. They agreed without haggling.
Around then, I heard about James. His arrogance had been his downfall. He’d sunk everything—even loans—into a high-risk property venture abroad. The *clients* he’d once entertained? They abandoned him after the divorce scandal. The project collapsed.
First, he sold his business. Then the car. Finally—the penthouse. The *f
