I did not sleep that night. I took refuge at my Aunt Vivian’s mid-century estate in Riverdale, barricading myself in her guest study. The antique grandfather clock in the hallway ticked like a metronome counting down to my financial execution. It was 11:30 PM. I had exactly nine and a half hours before Ben stripped half a million dollars of equity from my mother’s home and vanished it into the digital ether.
My phone was a continuous stream of glowing notifications. Ben was attempting to barrage me into submission.
“You need to think about the children before you do anything reckless.”
“Maya is suffering from postpartum depression. Have a heart.”
“Just get over it, Kate. You aren’t the first woman in history to be cheated on. We can co-exist.”
I muted his contact. I didn’t need his gaslighting; I needed his digital footprints.
Working as a senior contract auditor for a luxury real estate holding firm, my entire career was built on finding the trapdoors hidden in the fine print. Ben, a mid-level financial consultant who always thought he was the smartest man in the room, was notoriously sloppy.
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