Chapter 1

While I begged everyone I knew for the money to save my mother, my husband spent the same amount celebrating another woman's birthday.

The hallway outside the ICU was freezing. The steady beeping of the heart monitor cut through the silence.

My mother had suffered a massive stroke and needed emergency surgery. Her insurance would not cover the full cost, and the hospital required another $30,000 toward the procedure and her ICU stay.

I had already emptied my savings and paid the last $20,000 in my account, but it was nowhere near enough.

My hand shook as I scrolled through my contacts. In the end, I called Maxwell, my husband of five years.

He answered after several rings. Music and laughter drifted through the phone.

"Maxwell, Mom had a stroke. She needs surgery, and I still need thirty thousand dollars. Can you transfer it from our joint account?"

There was a brief silence.

"Lenora, calm down," he said gently. "I'm dealing with an emergency at work, but I'll transfer the money right now. Give me twenty minutes."

"Okay. Please hurry."

After hanging up, a message from Maxwell appeared.

Twenty minutes. I’ll handle it.

I leaned against the cold wall and refreshed our banking app again and again.

Twenty minutes passed.

Then thirty.

No money arrived.

Instead, Claire, my college roommate and now a divorce attorney, suddenly sent me a screenshot.

She had been scrolling through Instagram when Arabella's Story appeared on her feed.

In the picture, candlelight shimmered across a private room at the most expensive restaurant in the city. A two-tier birthday cake sat in the center of the table.

Maxwell stood behind Arabella, smiling as he fastened a diamond bracelet around her wrist. His hand rested possessively on her shoulder.

The caption read:

"Another perfect birthday. Thank you for always spoiling me, M."

The Story had been posted ten minutes earlier.

A receipt lay on the table beside them. Between the private dinner, the wine, and the bracelet, Maxwell had spent just over $30,000.

Exactly the amount I had begged him to send.

Arabella was his ex-girlfriend—the woman he had spent our entire marriage telling me not to worry about.

He had said he was handling an emergency at work.

He had promised the money was coming.

While my mother lay unconscious in the ICU, he was celebrating another woman's birthday.

The nurse called my name. I locked my phone and stopped waiting for him.

For the next four hours, I called everyone I knew. I maxed out two credit cards and accepted transfers from former classmates and coworkers I had not spoken to in years.

By dawn, I had finally raised enough.

My mother survived the surgery.

Maxwell never transferred a cent.

He did not even send a message asking whether she was alive.

Sitting beside my mother's hospital bed, I called Claire.

She answered in a sleepy voice.

"Lenora? It's barely six in the morning. What happened?"

"I need you to do something for me."

Her voice sharpened immediately. "What is it?"

I looked at the screenshot she had sent me. Maxwell's hand was still resting on Arabella's shoulder, as if that were where it had always belonged.

"Draft the divorce petition," I said.

Claire fell silent.

"Are you sure?"

I looked through the glass at my mother's pale face.

"Yes."

My voice was calmer than I had expected.

"I'm divorcing Maxwell."