Chapter 1

I married an ambitious, hardworking man.

I thought I had finally found my happily ever after.

My daughter ran a fever of 104 degrees.

I rushed her into the hospital, ran up to the registration counter, and swiped the card.

The balance flashed on the screen: 1.1 million dollars.

Then came the prompt: Transaction Declined.

I thought the machine was broken, so I tried another one.

Declined again.

The clerk checked her computer for a long time before looking up at me. "Ma'am, this card has a spending limit. The daily cap is... seven dollars."

Seven dollars.

I had been married to him for eight years. Even a maid wouldn't have a seven-dollar daily limit.

I called Donald.

It was loud on his end. Women were laughing in the background.

He snapped, "You're just a housewife. What do you need to spend money on? Seven bucks is plenty for baby formula and diapers."

"Our daughter has a 104-degree fever!"

"Just give her some baby Tylenol. Stop running to the ER for every little sniffle. I'm closing a major business deal."

My daughter started convulsing in my arms.

I hung up and dialed another number.

"Mr. Martinez, I want a divorce."

"Have you thought this through?"

Attorney Martinez's voice was calm and steady, like a scalpel measuring an incision.

"I have."

"How much do you know about Donald's assets?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Eight years. I had spent eight years in that house, cooking three meals a day, shuttling our child, doing the laundry, and cleaning from dawn till dusk.

Yet, if someone asked me how many properties we owned, what cars were in his name, or which bank held his savings, I couldn't give a single straight answer.

"I don't know."

"Alright. I'll look into it for you. Where are you tonight?"

"At the ER. My daughter is being treated."

"Focus on your little girl first. Leave the rest to me."

I hung up.

The ER doors stayed shut, but muffled cries came from inside.

When my card had declined earlier, a stranger holding a toddler of her own stepped up and swiped her card for me.

Forty-five dollars.

She didn't say a word. She just took one look at my shivering, convulsing daughter, walked to the payment window, and settled the bill.

When I asked for her name, she just waved me off and walked away.

A total stranger. Yet far more humane than my own husband.

The ER doors swung open, and a young female doctor walked out.

"Febrile seizures caused by a spike in fever. We've brought the temperature down, but she needs to be admitted for observation."

She gave me a sharp, questioning look.

"Why didn't you bring her in sooner? How long has she had this fever?"

"I... I couldn't pay the bill."

Her lips parted slightly, but she swallowed whatever harsh words she was about to say.

"Go process the admission paperwork first."

The hospital admission deposit was three hundred dollars.

I tore through my pockets and checked my PayPal balance. Twenty bucks.

My phone buzzed. A Snap from Donald.

*Don't call me out of the blue like that again. It's humiliating when I'm entertaining clients.*

A second message popped up right after.

*There's Advil in the medicine cabinet. Give her half a dose.*

1.1 million dollars. He had 1.1 million sitting in that account.

Our daughter was convulsing from a fever, and he told me to go dig through the medicine cabinet.

I didn't reply.

Instead, I called my mother.

"Mom, can I borrow three hundred dollars? Mia was just admitted to the hospital."

The line went quiet for two seconds before my father's booming voice took over.

"Asking for money again? You married a rich man, and you still come running to your mother for pocket change? Don't you have any shame?"

"Dad, Mia is—"

"You made your bed, now lie in it! We told you not to marry that man, but you just had to do it anyway!"

Click. He hung up.

I sank to the floor of the hallway, pulling my knees to my chest.

Under my shoe was a dried smear of someone's blood, dark and faded.

The woman who had paid for my registration suddenly reappeared.

Her toddler had just finished receiving an injection.

Seeing me curled up on the cold floor, she stopped.

"How much do you still need?"

"No, please. You've already done so much—"

She pressed a debit card into my trembling hands.

"The PIN is 000000. There's about five hundred bucks in there. Use it. Take your time paying me back."

"Why are you helping me?"

She smiled softly, a bitter edge to it.

"I recognize that look in your eyes. I used to have it too."

With that, she took her daughter's hand and walked out into the night.

By the time Mia's admission paperwork was finalized, it was already 2:00 AM.

Her face was still flushed, but she was no longer shaking.

I sat by her bedside, tightly holding her tiny hand until 3:00 AM.

Donald never showed up. He didn't even bother to send a single text.

At 4:00 AM, I picked up Mia's iPad to switch it to night mode.

A cloud sync notification popped up on the screen. Donald's iCloud account was still logged in.

The photo stream was automatically updating with the latest shots from his phone.

The first photo. In the cozy corner of an upscale restaurant, Donald had his arm wrapped around a glamorous young woman.

There was a bottle of vintage red wine and a cake topped with lettered candles.

*Happy 1st Anniversary.*

One year.

I swiped to the next photo.

I recognized the jade bracelet glistening on the woman's wrist immediately.

Donald had brought it back from a business trip last year. He told me it was an heirloom piece, meant to be saved for Mia until she grew up.

I kept swiping.

Photo after photo. From spring to winter, from trendy rooftop bars to sun-soaked tropical resorts.

In one of them, the woman was holding up a sleek black American Express Centurion card, flashing a cute peace sign at the camera.

The name embossed on the card: Donald Vance.

An authorized user card.

I zoomed in on the photo.

Down in the bottom right corner was a tiny line of fine print:

*Daily Spending Limit: $7,000.*

He gave her seven thousand dollars a day.

And he gave me seven bucks.

I set the iPad down on the nightstand with infinite care.

Steady. Quiet. Like hammering the final nail into a sealed coffin.

My phone vibrated.

It was Mr. Martinez.

4:30 AM.

"Amanda, I found a few things."

"Go on."

"Under Donald Vance's name, there is currently zero real estate registered."

"What do you mean?"

"The house you're currently living in was transferred three months ago. The title was signed over to a woman named Chloe Summers."

My throat constricted.

The smiling face from the iPad screen overlapped perfectly with that name.

"Mr. Martinez."

"Yes?"

"Did he... give her everything?"

The line was dead silent for three long seconds.

"The situation is far worse than you think."