“I’m not starting,” I said quietly. “I’m exhausted, Brian.”
“Exhausted from what?” he snapped. “The life I provide?”
The bitterness in his voice stunned me.
“From pretending,” I whispered. “Pretending I don’t see the messages from the woman at your firm. The midnight calls.”
He went still. Then anger hardened his face.
“If you’re so unhappy, then leave,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
“Leave,” he repeated louder, pointing to the door. “Pack your things and go.”
“You’re throwing me out?”
“I’m done,” he replied coldly. “You’ve become a weight I don’t need.”
The words hollowed me out. This wasn’t an argument. It was a verdict.
He dragged a suitcase from the closet and dropped it at my feet. My hands shook as I packed. I didn’t cry until I was sitting in my father’s old Honda, parked under a streetlight. I checked my bank account on my phone. The balance would barely cover a week. I hadn’t worked in almost three years.
No job. No house. No plan.
That’s when I felt the card in my purse.
It was matte black metal, heavier than any ordinary credit card. No numbers. No bank logo. Only a small engraving of an eagle above a shield.
I didn’t know what it unlocked. I only knew I had no other option.