Chapter 3Peel Your Own Damn Shrimp

I didn't do anything impulsive.

I drove to The Belvedere. To the address that received five pounds of premium white shrimp every Friday.

It was one of the most affluent residential complexes on the North Shore. I parked across the street and sat in my car for an hour, the engine purring quietly, the silence pressing against my eardrums.

Then, I pulled out my phone and logged into the state's property tax database. I ran a search on Tower 3, Apt 1702.

Nothing came up under his name.

So, I opened Brad’s mobile banking app. I was the one who had set his password years ago, and he had never bothered to change it. He was too arrogant to think I’d ever snoop.

The transaction history was infinitely long. I scrolled, page by tedious page.

On the third page, I found the thread.

Mortgage Payment — The Belvedere 3-1702 — $8,600.

Eight thousand, six hundred dollars a month.

For three years.

Thirty-six months.

$309,600.

I took a slow, deep breath, letting the icy air condition chill my lungs. I kept scrolling.

Soon, another hit.

North Shore Auto Group — Final Payment — $182,000.

Scroll.

Cartier — $38,000.

Saks Fifth Avenue — $27,500.

Zelle Transfer — Madison Foster — $10,000.

Zelle Transfer — Madison Foster — $10,000.

Zelle Transfer — Madison Foster — $15,000.

Every single month. A fixed allowance.

I pulled three years' worth of bank statements. I added the personal transfers, the mortgage, the car, the luxury shopping. I punched each number into my calculator application, one by agonizing one.

When the blinking cursor finally settled, it rested on a single figure.

$2,310,000.

And that was just from his personal checking account.

That didn't include the "CEO’s Private Orders" in the corporate procurement system.

That didn't include whatever he had run through the company’s expense accounts.

That night, Brad came home at eleven.

He smelled of expensive bourbon.

"Had drinks with a client," he muttered, kicking off his Italian loafers in the foyer.

"Mhm."

"Make sure you keep an eye on that shipment tomorrow."

"Mhm."

He went upstairs to shower. I sat on the living room sofa, staring at the empty space he had just occupied.

Eight years.

I was at the docks at three in the morning.

He was buying another woman real estate.

I was sleeping on a makeshift desk outside the industrial freezer.

He was peeling shrimp for another woman.

I worked until I herniated two discs in my lumbar spine.

He was coddling another woman so she wouldn't have to work a full day.

I built an entire empire from the ground up.

He was carving it into pieces and feeding it to a parasite.

I didn't cry. There was no point. Tears wouldn't reimburse me.