“I fired my husband’s young mistress on stage at the corporate gala. He slapped me in front of 500 people. So I slapped him back 10 times and told him right there, ‘You’re getting the hell out too.'” I was wearing a black velvet dress and four-inch stilettos, holding a flash drive with 37 pages of evidence. My husband Richard sat in the front row next to his 24-year-old special assistant — the one whose 6-week ultrasound I’d found in our home office three months ago. The giant screen lit up with hotel security footage from our wedding anniversary. Then bank transfers. Then text messages where he called me a bitter old woman who should step aside. He ran toward the stage, tripped on the steps, and lunged at me like a madman. But he forgot who I was before I became his wife — a Columbia Law grad who had negotiated with mobsters. And I had only just begun.
“I fired my husband’s young mistress on stage at the corporate gala. He slapped me in front of 500 people. So I slapped him back 10 times and told him right there, ‘You’re getting the hell out too.’” I was wearing a black velvet dress and four-inch stilettos, holding a flash drive with 37 pages…
