Then I found credit-card statements. Jewelry. Luxury dinners. And a hotel suite booked under Adrian’s name on evenings he claimed he was working late.
I hadn’t confronted him yet. I wanted to understand exactly what was happening first.
So when Adrian walked into our kitchen that morning and demanded another $28,000 for Margaret’s vacation, I gave him an answer he clearly wasn’t prepared to hear.
“No.” Adrian stared at me. Margaret finally lowered her phone. Then the argument began.
A few minutes later, Adrian pointed toward the front door. “You heard me.”
His face was tight with anger. “Wire the money now or get out of this house.”
Margaret looked up and gave me a small, satisfied smile. “Maybe some time away will help you appreciate what you have.”
I placed the towel on the counter. “Fine.” Adrian blinked. He had expected an apology.
A negotiation. Maybe even for me to transfer the money simply to restore peace.
Instead, I went upstairs. I packed one suitcase. My laptop. Passport. A few personal belongings.
And a slim blue folder from the locked drawer in my study. When I came downstairs, Adrian noticed it immediately.
“What’s in there?” I looked directly at him. “Something you should have read before telling me to leave.”
He laughed. I didn’t. Then I walked out. What Adrian had apparently forgotten was that the house he had just ordered me out of in Cedarcrest Heights, Bellmere…
had never actually belonged to him. Three years earlier, after his company failed, the bank refused to refinance us.
