"Absolutely. Let's see how her boss likes playing chauffeur."
She chuckled, tapping a few keys.
"Done. Anything else?"
I thought about it, then asked, "Can we flag her credit for a review?"
Mrs. Delgado's grin widened.
"We can absolutely do that."
God, I love this woman.
As I was leaving, she said, "You're handling this remarkably well."
"Organization is cheaper than therapy," I said.
That earned me a laugh.
Driving home, I passed Belinda's office.
Big glass building full of people pretending to love spreadsheets and pretending not to gossip.
For a second, I thought about walking in, giving her boss a polite nod, and saying, "Thanks for the free motivation."
But I had bigger plans.
This wasn't about confrontation anymore.
This was chess, not checkers.
I stopped at a coffee shop instead, got my usual black, and sat by the window.
I started sketching out my next move.
If Mrs. Delgado was the attorney of destruction, I needed her counterpart, the accountant of ascension.
Someone to help me rebuild smarter, richer, and legally bulletproof.
Enter Marcus Chun, CPA and part-time miracle worker.
Tar referred me, said the guy makes the IRS blush.
I called him that afternoon.
"Marcus Chun," he answered, voice smooth, calm, like a financial therapist.
"Hi," I said. "I'm looking for help untangling some joint finances. Divorce. You're good?"
He chuckled.
"I'm better than good. I'm efficient. Send me everything."
I emailed him the spreadsheet from Operation Bye-Bye Belinda.
He called back in 10 minutes.
"Sir," he said, "this is immaculate. You categorized emotional damage levels."
I shrugged, though he couldn't see it.
"Helps with perspective."
He laughed.
"I'll handle the financial transfers. You handle not texting your ex. Deal?"
"Deal," I said.
Two professionals, one in law, one in numbers, were now handling my cleanup.
And me?
I just had to sit back and sip coffee like a man watching karma hit its milestones.
By evening, Delgado emailed:
Filed and confirmed. Expect updates within 72 hours.
3 days.
In 3 days, my life would be officially Belinda-free.
That night, as I sat on the porch watching the sunset, I realized I hadn't checked her social media all day.
That was progress.
I didn't need to see her filtered healing journey.
I was living mine unfiltered and tax-deductible.
At 9:42 p.m., another text came through.
Belinda:
I don't know what's happening, but this is cruel.
I looked at the message for a long second, then typed:
It's not cruelty, Belinda. It's closure spelled correctly for once.
Send.
I turned off my phone, leaned back in my chair, and let the quiet settle.
Mrs. Delgado was right.
Silence isn't forgiveness.
It's strategy.
And damn, was mine working beautifully.