Looking back, I should've just focused on making bank.

Feelings? Whatever. Money doesn't stab you in the back.

With that mindset, I walked out of the office, already planning my next move.

Then my phone buzzed—twice.

Eric had just dropped twenty grand on my card.

***

Everyone thought I married Eric for his money.

Funny, since he was the one draining me dry, holding all my cards.

He always said his cash was "tied up in the company," so every bill, every splurge, came out of my paycheck and side hustles.

I figured marriage was a team effort, not some scoreboard of who paid what. So I kept quiet.

Until the math stopped adding up. I made good money—but my account was always gasping for air.

So I checked the statements.

And there it was. Eric had been using my card to spoil Vivien.

Hundred-dollar lipsticks. Designer bags over a grand. On her birthday? He blew tens of thousands renting out a five-star hotel.

Meanwhile, I was still rocking the same outfits from two years ago. Anything over a hundred bucks? "Too pricey," he'd say, handing me a card with some bargain-bin excuse about "saving for our future."

When I called him out, he flipped it on me. Accused me of being paranoid. Gave me the cold shoulder like always. Swore he'd never touch my money again.

So yeah, thinking about all that—I called him.

Had to hit redial like ten times. Nothing.

So I walked straight into the bank and reported the card lost.

Not even sixty seconds later, Eric finally called.

"Sorry, I was busy and didn't see your calls. What's up?" Like we were just catching up or something.

"It's fine now," I said, keeping it cool.

"Oh. Weird. Your card's frozen."

"I know," I said. "I froze it."

"What'd you do that for?" he snapped. "You bored or something?"

"Take it however you want. But didn't you promise not to touch my card again?"

Silence.

I'd never picked a fight over money before.

Back when the company was just starting, I got seriously sick. Surgery ran $10,000, and Eric had already dumped all his money into some flop of a project.

He thought I'd lose it. Came to me crying, all apologies.

But I just hugged him and said money didn't matter—he could use mine. No questions asked.

I thought giving him my heart would bring us closer.

Turns out, I was just making it easier for him to take more.

Eric went quiet for two seconds, then sighed.

Still playing the victim.

"Alright, I get it. You're still mad I skipped the honeymoon. This is your way of punishing me," he said. "Honestly, Hayley, I thought you were more mature. Guess not.

"Fine. I'll drop everything and take you on that honeymoon, happy now?

"I didn't bring my card. Just unlock yours and stop making this harder than it needs to be. Tonight's event matters."

"I'll give you ten minutes. If you don't do it, I’m not gonna let this slide."

Eric tossed out that little threat right before hanging up, like he was scared I might actually say no.

Back then, anytime he said he was mad, I'd cave. Not because I feared his anger—I just didn't want to pile more stress on him. Thought he was drowning in work, thought I was helping.

Now I knew better.

The chaos? Always his. I was just the one stuck cleaning it up.

Why keep doing that?

[You forgot your card? Ask your secretary. Or Vivien. This trip was for her project anyway. Let her pay for it.]

I fired off the message, shut my phone down, and headed home to pack.

I paid for the house. Every cent.

It was his favorite layout, his pick on the flooring. I even planned to put both our names on the deed... but something held me back. In the end, I wrote down only mine.

Looking back? Thank God I did.

Once everything was packed, I listed the house with a realtor.

The next day, I marched into the courthouse and handed over the signed divorce papers.

Back when we first signed them, I was still wondering how to break it to Eric. But he was already halfway out the door, dragging his suitcase like we were on a tight schedule.

He didn't even glance at the papers. Just flipped to the last page and signed.

"You should read it," I said, still hanging on to some tiny scrap of hope.

"No need. You're my wife. Don't I trust you?"

I smiled—cold and bitter.

Funny. He trusted Vivien with everything else.

That so-called trust? Just another way to brush me off.

Too busy chasing a flight. Too eager to join Vivien on "their" honeymoon.

I handed over the papers. The clerk said I needed proof—from him—that the relationship was actually over.

So I pulled out the receipts: photos of Eric and Vivien posing like a couple. Even brought the wedding photo he'd smashed for her.

Still, the clerk shook her head. "He has to say it himself."

Seriously?

Frustrated, I turned my phone back on.

It lit up like a Christmas tree—missed calls, unread messages. All from Eric.

Since I hadn't unfrozen the card, he'd cycled through the usual: begging, threatening.

The last message? Full-on rage. Swearing at me. Saying he wanted a divorce.

I showed it to the clerk.

She still wasn't budging.

So I called him. Took forever for him to answer.

"Eric, about our relationship—"

"What relationship? You're wasting your breath. If you don't apologize to Vivien, I will divorce you!"

He cut me off, cold. Like he thought I was calling to grovel.

Then he hung up.

That did it. The clerk's face finally softened as she processed the paperwork. "It'll be finalized in a month."

Eric wasn't serious. He never was.

He'd tossed around "divorce" like a threat for years—whenever he got pissed.

And I always folded. Always made peace, gave in, held things together.

He was convinced I'd never actually leave.

To him, "divorce" wasn't an ending. It was a weapon.

Eric really forgot how feelings work—like a savings account. Keep taking without giving, and yeah, it hits zero real fast.

I'd listed the house cheap, so it sold in under a week. After signing everything at the realtor's and locking in the move-out date, I headed home.

As soon as I opened the door, laughter echoed inside.

***

The couple slippers by the door? Gone.

Instead? A pair of heels—and Eric's favorite leather shoes. The same ones Vivien gave him for his birthday.

That's when it hit me: they were here. Together. Weren't they supposed to be gone for two more days?

I was still processing when Vivien strolled out like she owned the place. Wearing my slippers. My pajamas. Hair slightly messy, all casual and smug, like she lived there now.

"Hayley, why are you back? Isn't it office hours?"

She tossed a grape in her mouth and spit the seed into a cup—my cup. Part of the set Eric gave me back when I actually thought that meant something.

Eric walked out from the living room right then. Saw Vivien using my cup and, of course, acted like he didn't.

When his eyes landed on me, his face twitched—then iced over.

"Skipping work again? Just 'cause you're my wife doesn't mean you get special treatment. The company's not your personal playground. If you can't follow the rules, how am I supposed to make anyone else?"

Rules?

I almost laughed.

If anyone was breaking rules, it was Eric.

A year ago, right when the company was finding its footing, he fast-tracked Vivien—zero experience—straight into management. I had doubts. He swore she had "potential." So, like an idiot, I trained her.

She spent her days napping or doing her makeup. Then she'd hang around after hours, post pics in the group chat like she was burning the midnight oil.

I told Eric. He shrugged. "Maybe she just needs to unwind."

I asked him to keep tabs on her. "Too busy."

Suggested cameras. "Not legal."

Then came the botched projects. The money down the drain. Vivien kept playing dress-up at the office. When I finally said she had to go, Eric pushed back—hard.

He even asked, "Are you just jealous she might outshine you?"

So yeah. She stayed. Took my clients. Hijacked my projects. And Eric? Watched it all happen, said nothing. Worse—he called her the star employee and made me the villain. Just the jealous, petty wife.

I used to feel hurt.

Now? I realized—with the patience I wasted here, I could've crushed it anywhere else. Places where I wouldn't be ignored, sidelined, or treated like I didn't matter.

I said nothing.

Vivien gave Eric this fake-sweet back pat. "Maybe Hayley rushed over 'cause she found out you were back in Bellavaro."

Eric ate it up. Smug lit up his face. "Alright, just don't let it happen again. But hey—how'd you even know I was flying back today?"

Vivien smiled like butter wouldn't melt. "Eric, you forgot? HR booked your flight. Someone on the team probably told her."