Chapter 4

Lucy Turner was my college roommate. She worked at a law firm specializing in family and divorce cases. When we met up, she went through the documents I had brought three times, just to be sure.

Lucy looked up at me and asked, "Are you certain he has a company in Riverdale?"

I nodded and said, "I found it in the system. The linked account was under his name."

"How much money are we talking about?" Lucy asked.

"I hadn't pinned down the exact numbers yet, but judging from his transaction history over the past few years, we were talking about at least several million dollars."

Lucy adjusted her glasses, and her expression turned serious. She said, "Rachel, if James moved a large chunk of your joint assets to overseas accounts before the divorce, the law says you can go after it. But you would need solid evidence first."

"I know," I replied.

Lucy asked, "So, what's your plan?"

"I'll sign first," I said.

"Wait, what?" Lucy blinked.

"I'm going to sign the deal James offered," I repeated.

Lucy stared at me, thinking she must have misunderstood. She asked, incredulous, "You're taking the 230,000 dollars? You're just going to let go of the half a million dollars your family put in for the down payment?"

"I want it, but not right now," I said.

I unfolded James' list and pointed to the tiny print at the very bottom. It read, "Both parties confirm that the above constitutes all marital assets. No other assets have been concealed or transferred."

"If he wants me to sign this, it means he's sure I have no clue about the overseas stuff."

Lucy got it instantly. "You sign first, and let him think you've given up. Once he drops his guard, you dig up the evidence on his overseas assets.

"Then you sue him for hiding and transferring marital property. He'll have to split it with you, and he might even lose more than half."

I nodded. "Exactly."

Lucy asked, "Did you have this all planned out from the start?"

I said, "Ever since I saw that Velorium charge."

On the day we signed the divorce papers, James showed up in a brand-new suit. He even brought his own fountain pen.

He asked, "Want to grab a meal after? One last meal as the husband and wife?"

"No need," I replied.

After I finished signing, I handed the pen back to him. There was not a single tremor in my fingertips.

James looked surprised, as if he hadn't expected me to be so decisive. He hesitated and then asked, "Rachel, you... you don't blame me?"

I met his gaze and asked, "Blame you for what?"

He pressed further, "You're really not angry at all?"

I stood up and slipped the divorce decree into my bag. I looked at James and said, "James, you really overestimate yourself. You're not even worth getting angry about."

As I walked out of the courthouse, the sunlight was brilliant. Standing on the steps, I took a deep breath and felt the weight finally lift.

Six years of marriage. From today on, I would settle every score, one by one.

*****

Three days after the divorce, Susan moved into that apartment. The news came straight from Linda herself. She told the property manager in person.

Linda said, "My son's got a new girlfriend now. Her family's loaded, way better than Rachel Foster."

The property manager, whom I kept in touch with, passed Linda's words along, exactly as she said them. I did not reply.

On the fifth day, Linda posted a photo in the family group chat. Susan was sitting in my old favorite rocking chair by the window, holding a cup of coffee and wearing a camel cashmere coat.

That rocking chair was something I had bought with my very first year-end bonus.

Linda captioned it, "Susan knows how to enjoy herself. James finally got it right."

James replied with a hug emoji.

I was booted from the family group chat on the seventh day after the divorce. Linda was the one who kicked me out. She said, "You are already divorced, still hanging around in the group chat? What if Susan sees you? It would be so awkward."

I stared at the notification in my rented one-bedroom and then set my phone down.

The place measured 370 square feet and cost 1,500 dollars a month, out in Glenbrook. My new place was bare, just a bed, a wardrobe, and a folding table. Outside the window, a highway ran past. Trucks thundered by all night, shaking the walls.

This was my new life. The first two weeks were rough. It was not because my heart was broken, but because the change was so stark.

I had lived in that apartment for six years. Leaving it felt like losing a part of myself, for every corner still carried traces of me.

The living room curtains were in the color I had picked, the kitchen had six matching spice jars I had bought, and the pothos on the balcony, once just a tiny sprout, had grown to trail over three feet long.

I used to think all those things were "ours." Now I finally got it. Whose name was on the deed, that was who it really belonged to.

Susan was not content to win quietly. She wanted everyone to know she had come out on top. On the twelfth day, she sent me a friend request on a messaging app.

I accepted, not because I liked her or what. I just needed her to keep exposing herself.

Susan's first message was a photo. It showed workers swapping out the old cream-colored sofa in the living room for a new gray leather one.

Susan: [Ms. Foster, the sofa you picked before looked a bit outdated, so I had James replace it. Hope you don't mind?]

Rachel: [Not at all. As long as you're happy.]

Susan: [You're really so understanding, Ms. Foster. No wonder James always says you're so reasonable.]

I was reasonable and understanding? Yeah, I used to believe that.

On the fifteenth day, Susan sent me another picture. It was a brochure for James' new company, the cover printed with "Harbor Holdings Ltd."

Susan: [James' company is expanding. My dad pulled a few strings, and they're planning to open a branch next year.]

I zoomed in on the photo and cropped out a section of text. It said, "Registered capital, 13 million dollars."

Finally, I got a real number to work with.

I closed the messaging app and opened a new page. The bank's internal compliance system was there.

The login screen was up, the cursor blinking, waiting for input. I typed in my employee ID, took a deep breath, and started drafting a suspicious activity report.

It was not the time to submit it yet. But I was determined to get every number, every transaction, every last detail straight.