Chapter 3Erasing My Husband Ten Years Early

Before I could answer, the front door chime chimed.

My mother-in-law, Lorraine, breezed in holding a butcher’s bag full of prime short ribs. Her performance began before she even kicked off her loafers.

"Lyra, darling! I came to make that braised broth you like. Honestly, why are you still stressing yourself over quarterly reports? A woman crossing thirty needs to put nursery prep first. That's real life."

She slipped into her house slippers, exchanging a quick, weighted glance with Brendan.

"Brendan dotes on you like you’re made of porcelain. Men like him don’t grow on trees, sweetheart. Count your blessings and don't overthink things."

Brendan kept his head lowered, sipping his oatmeal.

The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth was barely perceptible.

The good cop and the bad cop. Perfectly rehearsed.

Listening to them, a bitter bile burned the back of my throat, but my face remained an unreadable mask.

"Excuse me for a second, let me take this work call," I murmured, rising from the stool.

I slipped into the bedroom, unlocked the top jewelry drawer, and pulled out the jade pendant. I slipped the cord over my neck, tucking the stone beneath the collar of my silk blouse.

The jagged, chipped edge pressed against the bare skin over my heart.

A sharp, icy bite.

A physical anchor, reminding me that monsters do not deserve mercy.

When I emerged, Lorraine caught my wrist near the foyer.

"Lyra, don’t forget to sign that letter today, alright? I’m waiting to hold my grandbaby."

I offered her a bright, empty smile.

"Why the sudden rush, Lorraine?"

Her expression stiffened for a fraction of a second.

Brendan stepped in instantly, his tone protective. "Mom’s just eager for our future, babe. That’s all."

"Right," I said softly.

I walked out of the building, bypassed the subway station, and hailed a cab directly across town.

To the law offices of Brooke Lawson.

Brooke had been my college roommate, a sharp-tongued litigator specializing in high-asset matrimonial division and domestic fraud.

I sat in her corner office and laid out the facts without embellishment: the sudden pressure to resign, the urgency to transfer real estate deeds, the unauthorized financial documents, the persistent inquiries into my parents' assets.

Brooke listened, tapping the silver tip of her pen against her mahogany desk.

"Tap. Tap."

"You can’t go to the police yet," Brooke said, her gaze steady and razor-sharp. "Without overt criminal conduct, the precinct will dismiss this as marital discord. A civil disagreement."

She leaned forward.

"But if he’s this frantic to get your signature, he’s running on a clock. He’s going to make a mistake."

"Here is what you do: go home, play dumb, smile, eat his breakfast, avoid confrontation, and do not show your cards."

"Do not sign a single scrap of paper. Passports, birth certificates, deeds, account tokens, corporate seals—move every single one of them out of that apartment today."

"Change your passcodes. Disconnect your cloud syncing from any shared home devices. And from this second on, document every room you walk into."

I nodded.

Late that evening, Brooke called my burner number. Her voice was unusually grim.

"Lyra, I ran a preliminary asset-and-liability sweep through our private investigator. Your husband has multiple private installment loans out with predatory online platforms. With interest compounding, he’s underwater by nearly six hundred thousand dollars."

My grip on the phone tightened.

"Where did the money go?"

"Messy paper trail. High-stakes digital gambling accounts, bridge-loan rollovers, and a steady recurring wire to a single personal checking account."

I closed my eyes.

"Tara Bishop?"

"Bingo. Tagged under ‘Tara-Personal.’ Eight thousand dollars every single month, like clockwork, for the past two years."

I pressed the phone against my ear until my knuckles turned white. Inside, the panic had evaporated, replaced by an eerie, glacial clarity.

Midnight came. I switched off the bedside lamp, pretending to sleep, keeping my breathing slow, rhythmic, and shallow.

The balcony door hadn't been pulled completely shut.

Brendan’s hushed voice drifted through the drafty glass slit.

"Stop riding me, it’s almost done."

"She’s an easy mark. A few tears, tell her I feel insecure and can't live without her, and she melts."

"The resignation letter is drafted. We’re discussing the deed transfer right now."

"Once her signature is on the trust agreement, the dominoes will fall."

A pause.

Footsteps padded softly toward the bedroom.

I shut my eyes tight, cold sweat prickling my palms under the duvet.

The bedroom door creaked open an inch.

In the heavy darkness, he stood there, watching the silhouette of my back for what felt like an eternity.

Then, a faint, condescending chuckle slipped from his throat.

"Out like a light."

The latch clicked shut.

Underneath the heavy down comforter, I clenched my fists until my nails drew blood in my palms, swallowing the tears back into my throat.

Tears were a luxury for the slaughtered.

I was going to make sure he was on his knees before this was over.