“Even the dog won’t eat your meatballs,” the man laughed, tossing the food away. Now he eats in the homeless shelter I fund.
The plate of dinner flew into the bin. The sharp clatter of porcelain against plastic made me flinch.
“Even the dog won’t touch your meatballs,” he chuckled, pointing at the dog, who deliberately turned his nose up at the offered bite.
James wiped his hands on the expensive tea towel I’d bought to match our new kitchen decor. He was always obsessed with details—when they suited his image.
“Annie, I’ve asked you before. No homemade food when I’m expecting business partners. It’s… common. It smells like poverty.”
He said the word with such distaste, like it left a rotten aftertaste in his mouth.
I looked at him—his perfectly pressed shirt, the expensive watch he never took off, even at home. And for the first time in years, I felt no hurt, no urge to defend myself. Just cold. A piercing, crystalline cold.
“They’ll be here in an hour,” he went on, oblivious to my silence. “Order steaks from The Grand Royal. And the seafood salad. And do something with yourself. Wear the blue dress.”
He gave me a quick, assessing glance.
“And tie your hair back. That messy look cheapens you.”
I nodded mechanically. Up, down. Empty.
While he barked orders into his phone, I slowly picked up the broken plate. Every shard was as sharp as his words. I didn’t argue. What was the point?
Every attempt I’d made to “improve” for him ended the same way—humiliation. My sommelier courses? Mocked as “a hobby for bored housewives.” My attempts at home decor? “Tacky.” My cooking, into which I’d poured not just effort but the last shreds of hope for warmth? Straight in the bin.
“Yes, and get decent wine,” James was saying. “Not that swill Annie tasted at her little classes. Proper stuff.”
I stood, tossed the shards, and caught my reflection in the dark oven door. A tired woman with dead eyes. Someone who’d spent too long trying to be a convenient prop in someone else’s life.
I walked to the bedroom. But not for the blue dress. I opened the wardrobe and pulled out a suitcase.
He called two hours later, as I was settling into a cheap hotel on the outskirts of London. I’d deliberately avoided friends—so he couldn’t find me straight away.
“Where are you?” His voice was calm, but underneath lurked a threat. The quiet precision of a surgeon before slicing out a tumour. “The guests are here, and the hostess is missing. Embarrassing.”
“I’m not coming, James.”
“What do you mean, ‘not coming’? Are you seriously sulking over meatballs? Annie, don’t be childish. Get back here.”
He didn’t ask. He commanded. Certain his word was law.
“I’m filing for divorce.”
Silence. In the background, I could hear glasses clinking, quiet music playing. His evening went on without me.
“Right,” he said finally, icy amusement in his voice. “Trying to prove a point. Fine. Play at independence. Let’s see how long you last. Three days?”
He hung up. He didn’t believe me. To him, I was just a malfunctioning object, soon to be fixed and put back in place.
A week later, we met in his office’s meeting room. He sat at the head of the long table, flanked by a slick lawyer with the face of a card sharp. I came alone. On purpose.
“Had your little rebellion?” James smiled his trademark smirk. “I’m willing to forgive you. If you apologise for this tantrum, of course.”
Silently, I slid the divorce papers across the table.
His smirk vanished. He nodded to his lawyer.
“My client,” the man said smoothly, “is prepared to be generous. Given your… let’s say, fragile emotional state and lack of independent income.”
He pushed a folder toward me.
“James is willing to let you keep the car. And he’ll provide maintenance for six months. A more than fair sum, I assure you. Enough for modest accommodation while you find work.”
I opened the folder. The amount was insulting. Not even crumbs from his table—just the dust beneath it.
“The flat, of course, remains James’s,” the lawyer continued. “It was purchased before the marriage.”
The business was his too. No shared assets. “You didn’t work,” James added, shrugging.
“I ran the household,” I said quietly but firmly. “I made it a home he returned to. I organised the dinners that helped close deals.”
James scoffed.
“A home? Dinners? Annie, please. Any housekeeper could’ve done it cheaper. You were just… decorative. And lately, not even that.”
He wanted to wound me. And he did. But not the way he’d hoped. Instead of tears, fury rose in me.
“I won’t sign this,” I said, pushing the folder back.
“You don’t understand,” James leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t an offer. It’s an ultimatum. Take it and walk away quietly—or get nothing. I have the best lawyers. They’ll prove you were just a leech, living off me.”
He savoured the word.
“Without me, you’re nothing. A nobody. You can’t even fry a decent meatball. What kind of fight could you possibly put up in court?”
I looked at him. Really looked. For the first time in years, not as his wife, but as an outsider.
And I saw not a powerful man, but a scared, arrogant boy, terrified of losing control.
“We’ll see you in court, James. And no, I won’t be coming alone.”
I stood and walked out, feeling his hateful glare burning into my back.
The door closed behind me, severing the past. I knew he wouldn’t let this go. He’d try to destroy me. But for the first time in my life, I was ready.
The trial was quick and brutal. James’s lawyers painted me as a spoiled, petty woman who’d thrown a tantrum over a ruined dinner.
My solicitor—an older, unflappable woman—didn’t engage. She simply laid out the evidence: receipts, bills, invoices. The groceries for his “unseemly” dinners. The dry-cleaning for his suits before big meetings. The tickets to events where he’d schmoozed clients—all paid for by me.
It was meticulous, tedious work. Not to prove my contribution to his business, but one simple fact: I wasn’t a freeloader. I was an unpaid employee.
In the end, the court awarded me slightly more than James’s initial offer—but far less than I deserved. The money didn’t matter, though.
What mattered was that I hadn’t let him humiliate me.
The first months after the divorce were the hardest. I rented a tiny studio in an old building. Money was tight. But for the first time in a decade, I fell asleep without fear of waking up to belittlement.
The idea came unexpectedly. One evening, cooking dinner, I realised I was enjoying it. I remembered his words—”smells like poverty”—and thought: what if poverty could smell expensive?
I experimented. Simple ingredients transformed into something refined. Those same meatballs became a blend of three meats, served with a wild berry glaze. I created recipes for gourmet meals you could make in 20 minutes.
Restaurant-quality food, in ready-to-cook form. For people with taste but no time.
I called it “Annie’s Supper.” Set up a simple social media page, posted photos. At first, orders trickled in. Then word spread.
The turning point came when Laura—wife of James’s former business partner—reached out. She’d been at that ill-fated dinner. “Annie, I remember how he spoke to you. Let me try those infamous meatballs.”
She didn’t just try them—she raved about them in her popular blog. Orders flooded in.
Within six months, I’d rented a small kitchen and hired two assistants. My “home gourmet” concept caught on.
Then a major supermarket chain approached me, looking for a supplier for their premium range. My pitch was flawless.
I spoke about taste, quality, saving time for busy people. Offering not just food, but a lifestyle.
When they asked for my price, I named a figure that made my own breath catch. They agreed without haggling.
Around the same time, mutual friends shared news about James. His arrogance had been his downfall. He’d sunk everything—even borrowed money—into a risky overseas property venture, certain of huge returns.
The partners he’d once hosted with steaks dropped him after the divorce scandal. The financial house of cards collapsed.
First, he sold the business to cover urgent debts. Then the car. Last went the flat—the one he’d called his fortress. He was left homeless, drowning in debt.
Part of my contract with the supermarket included a charity initiative.
