When people ask me at what point did I realize my marriage was over, I don’t really overshare. But I knew exactly what that breaking point was; it was the moment he let his 24-year-old assistant to take the front seat in my Mercedes. Why? Because she apparently got carsick, so he asked me to seat in the back.

But I helped get that damn SUV for him when his real estate business was going down the drain. It was the vehicle where he would grab my hand, all the way back from our miscarriage, and swore I’d never sit behind anyone. But there she was, under his umbrella, carrying a bag that was worth more than her entire rent bill.

When I said that front seat was mine, he called me sensitive. And then I saw her do it, she shot me a smug little smile from under her sunglasses. Twelve years of being smaller so he could be big, and I was now nothing more than luggage. I took the back seat without saying anything further, and it terrified him.

Three days later, I found her perfume under the passenger seat, and it was reclined completely flat. David would say he was in Chicago for a business trip. But Hamptons winery put up a picture of his hands entwined with hers, and the caption underneath said, “My boss treats me like a queen.”

Did I cry? Oh, he was so unworthy of my tears. What I did instead of crying was turn on my laptop. The townhouse deed was under my name; it was a wedding gift from my dad. The Mercedes was mine too. Then I contacted my attorney, Harry, and asked him to sell the house, divide my pre-marriage property and freeze the joint accounts. “He forced me into the backseat of my own life,” I told him. “Him being desperate is exactly what I want.”

I put up another show for just one more day. As he returned, with his suntan from the Hamptons, he instructed me to wear a certain blue dress for the charity auction on the following evening. And then I told him I had already sold it.

The very next afternoon, I visited his office with some lunch. The door was ajar and Cecilia, his secretary, was sitting on his lap, half undressed. On seeing me there, she screamed and spilled the coffee all over the place. “Cece! Oh my god, are you burned?” David jumped out of his seat, panicked. His first instinct was to protect his mistress from coffee.

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I laughed sarcastically, and David lost it, pushing me to the ground. “Stand up. Stop embarrassing yourself.” I stood up and fixed my skirt. “Thank you for making this easy,” I said before leaving the office. Next, I messaged my wealthy college friend, Alex: Plan B. Tonight.

At the Plaza Hotel auction later that night, I appeared in a black velvet gown and burgundy lipstick. Alex was at my side. David was all sweaty in his tuxedo while seated with Cecilia, who looked hopelessly out of place.

Auctioning of the following item was announced, namely the oil portrait I’d done of David when he was twenty-nine years old and we both were struggling and naïve enough to think his ambitions were honorable. I put it up for sale. Alex placed a bid for one million dollars. David raised it. They battled each other with David’s ego getting in his way. Cecilia started yelling at him to stop, and he shouted, “Be quiet,” realizing she was nothing but decoration. Alex raised the price to four millions.

“Five million dollars,” he stammered. Sold. He’d just spent five million dollars buying a painted ghost of himself.

Alex and I made our way over to his table. David was visibly shaking. “You embarrassed me. What have you done?”

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“I left,” I said, smiling. “Emotionally, legally, financially, and physically.” I removed my wedding ring from my finger and placed it by his glass. “Enjoy the painting. The only thing of mine you’ll ever own again.”

At 11:30 that night, I was sitting in the JFK lounge, watching my one-way ticket to Berlin board. My cell phone was ringing constantly, hundreds of missed calls. By this time, David had returned to the townhouse to find it sealed with new codes and locks, empty of staff and all furnishings and artwork. Just before we boarded, I took his call.

“Where are you?” he cried. “Catherine?”

I watched the lights along the runway. “You wanted her in the front seat. Now let her drive you around.” I hung up and switched it off.

Three days later, in Berlin, Alex called me. David had crashed the Mercedes while speeding through the rain, fighting with Cecilia. He suffered from spinal cord damage, and he could not walk anymore. As for Cecilia, she stayed in the hospital just for twenty minutes, during which she managed to take David’s wallet, money, and Patek watch.

David’s empire fell apart in a matter of weeks. He lost investors due to the audits caused by my divorce papers, and the family disowned him.

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I moved on and opened a gallery – The Front Room. It was a private joke; finally, I was not going to stay in the back. Alex kept visiting me, always respectful and consistent. One year went by. Winter came to Berlin, and one evening, when we were walking through the snow, Alex suggested I spent the New Year’s Eve with him in Prague. I agreed.

As of David, he kept calling me. The last time I answered one of his calls, he said, “Please, take me home. In the eyes of God, we’re still…”

“Don’t bring God into the wreckage you made,” I said.

As I hung up the phone, I realized one thing. I didn’t hate David. At that point, to me, he was just a stranger whose name I happened to know.

His ego convinced me that I would always be there and would keep my door unlocked for him. But this time, he couldn’t be more wrong.