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The door creaks as I ease it open, the sound soft but stretching in the stillness.

Inside, everything is painfully precise. Papers stacked with military neatness. Pens lined up like they’re reporting for duty. Even the phone charger’s coiled tight, snake-like and watching.

I hesitate. This feels like a violation. An intrusion. But something deeper pushes past the guilt.

My fingers hover over the mouse, breath tight in my throat.

What am I even doing?

At first, I see nothing unusual. Work emails. Appointment reminders. Subscriptions he never reads.

I almost laugh. Maybe I am paranoid. Maybe my parents’ judgment rattled me more than I thought. But then an untitled folder catches my eye.

It’s full. Overflowing.

Something cold trickles down my spine.

I click.

And the floor drops out from under me.

It starts with a single email—one I almost don’t open. A line of unread notifications buried beneath appointment reminders and online shopping promos. But something about the subject line hooks my gut.

Payment overdue: Immediate action required.

I click it. Then another. And another.

Debt collectors.

Past-due notices.

Overdraft warnings stacked like kindling.

Statements from credit cards I’ve never used.

Loans I never even knew we had—some dated back months. One over a year ago.

All in David’s name.

Some in both of ours.

A quiet roar builds behind my ribs.

There’s a second loan. Then a third. Then a fourth.

One tied to the car. One attached to a personal line of credit.

And then?—

I freeze.

One flagged in bold red type. Secured against property.

I click into it.

And there it is. Cold and clinical.

Money borrowed against the house.

Our house.

The one I bought on my own. The one I fought for—brick by bloody brick—after Mia was born. The one place that was mine, until he convinced me to put his name on the mortgage. Said it was safer that way. Said we were building a future together.

And now?—

Now it’s collateral.

I blink once, twice, trying to force the blur away, but it clings.

Everything on the screen swims, numbers warping like they’re underwater. Except they’re not soft and blurred. They’re sharp. Precise. Cruel.

The declined card at the Foundry. The petrol station.

That wasn’t a glitch.

Wasn’t contactless being temperamental.

Wasn’t an issue with the bank.

It was the first crack.

The first clue I refused to see—because believing him was easier than looking for the truth.

My hands move before my thoughts can catch up. Scrabbling, frantic, fingers slipping on my phone screen as I fumble to find the banking app.

It’s not there. Of course it’s not.

David said I didn’t need it. Said it only stressed me out. That I deserved a break. That peace of mind was worth more than watching every penny. He said he’d keep an eye on things—handle it from his end.

And I let him.

“For fuck sake, Ellie!” I whisper-shout to myself.

I re-download it, fingers trembling so badly I miss the App Store search twice.

My thumb hovers over the login screen, coiled so tightly it’s like my lungs have forgotten how to work.

Error.

Incorrect username or password.

“Shit!” I hiss.

My hands move before my thoughts can catch up. Scrabbling, frantic, as I type bank into the search bar of David’s emails and there they are. Dozens of them.

Thank Christ for paperless banking.

I click the most recent one—October.

And there it is. In black and white.

￡3.84.

The figure stares back at me like a slap.

That’s it. That’s all that’s left. The account we’ve used for groceries. For bills. For Mia.

I scroll through the transactions, heart hammering so loud I can barely hear. Payday loans. Withdrawals I don’t recognise. Casino charges. Betting sites. Direct debits I never authorised.

Each new entry slams into me like a blow.

How long has this been going on?

How many lies has he told?

How could I have been so fucking stupid?

I look back to the untitled folder, scroll some more, hands trembling. And then I see it. Tucked innocently between the mess:

Your Hotel Booking Confirmation.

I click. And it feels like the bottom falls out of the world.

David’s name. Two guests. A reservation at a boutique hotel hours away.

Booked just days ago. And beneath it:

Alicia Bennett.

The breath leaves my lungs. The screen swims.

I click further. Email chains. Flirtatious messages. Inside jokes I don’t understand. Weekend plans. Explicit content.

His name. Her hearts and winks.

It wasn’t one mistake or some drunken lapse—it was deliberate. Planned. Nurtured.

He chose her. Over and over and over again.

I stumble forward, catching my hip hard on the sharp corner of the desk. Pain jolts up through the bone—hot and sudden—but it barely registers. Everything else is louder.

Irrelevant.

My stomach heaves, like something inside me is turning to acid.

I slap a hand over my mouth, breath hitching fast and shallow. Like it’s not meant to be in me anymore.

I lurch into the hallway, crashing against the wall like I’m drunk. The paint’s cool under my palm, but nothing feels real. The floor bucks beneath me. The walls bend and blur.

He took everything.

Everything .

I barely make it to the guest room. Legs giving out halfway to the bed, and I crash down onto the edge with all the grace of a marionette whose strings have been cut.

My hands won’t stop. They shake like they’re searching for something to hold on to, but there’s nothing. Not anymore.

And my chest. God .

It won’t open wide enough. The air comes in broken pieces. Like my ribs forgot how to be a cage, and now they’re just knives.

I grab my phone, but it takes three tries to unlock it, my vision too blurry.

Naomi’s name glows at the top of my contacts. She’d come. She’d drop everything. But she’s with her family. With people who love her.

I scroll again. Past my parents. Past the people who’ll tell me to be practical. Who’ll tell me to compromise. Who’ll pick his side without even meaning to.

There’s no comfort there. No softness. Not for me.

Not anymore.

My thumb keeps scrolling, aimless. Until it lands…

Kieran .

Not at the top. Not the easiest. But the only name my heart clings to like instinct.

I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I just press the call button.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. Each ring a heartbeat. Each one a razor slicing across my nerves.

Just as I’m about to hang up, too raw, too scared. He answers.

“Ells?” His voice is low. Rough with sleep. But it’s him.

And that’s all it takes. The sound of my name on his lips is like a dam breaking open.