Two months ago, Ethan asked me for $180,000, nearly everything I had left from my parents’ inheritance, swearing it was for a new branch of his company, showing me projections and promises and that sincere face I used to interpret as love, and Brianna was there—of course she was—telling me to give him a chance, telling me he was the best man I’d ever find, telling me we all have flaws as if betrayal was just another quirk to tolerate.
Now she was in my closet searching for the agreement I’d signed, the one that used my house—my parents’ house, the only physical piece of them I still had—as collateral.
She found it with terrifying ease and sang out softly, almost pleased with herself, “I found it.”
Derek’s voice came through again. “Perfect,” he said, and then he laid out the next move with the calm confidence of someone who believed the ending was already written: tomorrow, as soon as I’d had breakfast and gone to the spa “gift” they’d arranged, Ethan would go to the bank and transfer everything to the Cayman Islands account, and by noon there wouldn’t be any money left.
“And the divorce?” Ethan asked, coldly, casually, like he was asking what time dinner started.