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"My Husband Said I’d Get Nothing—But He Got Trapped Instead"...





Jackson slammed a thick stack of papers onto the dining room table just after midnight. "Sign here, here, and here," he barked, tapping each page impatiently. His voice was cold, detached—like he was addressing a stranger, not Clare, his wife of twelve years.Clare looked at him calmly. His hair was messy, eyes bloodshot, and faint perfume clung to his jacket—a scent she didn’t recognize."Now, Clare," Jackson snapped, thrusting a pen toward her. "I don’t have all night."The dining room, once warm and inviting, felt icy, more like an interrogation room than the heart of their Austin home. "You get nothing," he continued with a cruel smirk. "No alimony, no house. You leave with exactly what you brought in."