Chapter 2

As I stepped through the door and changed out of my shoes, he turned around. The look on his face was ugly.

"What is this?" he said, and shoved the document from the envelope in front of me.

It was a property registration deed.

Riverside Heights, Building 18, Unit 3201. 1,745 square feet. Registered owner: Emily Carter.

"I said, what is this?" His voice rose half a notch.

I took it from him, glanced at it, and set it down on the entryway shelf. "It's a property deed."

"Of course, I know it's a property deed!" The vein in his forehead twitched. "What I'm asking is, why is only your name on it? I thought we were paying for this place together."

I set my coffee down and looked at him. "David, this apartment was paid for in full. $1,600,000, cash. Who told you it was on a mortgage?"

His lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Think about it carefully," I said evenly. "From the day we moved in, have you ever paid a single cent?"

The living room went quiet for a while. The expression on his face shifted by degrees. First confusion, then disbelief, and finally a stiffness I couldn't quite name.

Three years ago, when we moved into this place, I had told him that a friend had helped me get the apartment and we would pay it off together going forward.

He readily agreed. Yet in three years, he never once saw a mortgage statement. With utilities on autopay and property fees paid only once or twice, he simply assumed the monthly payments came out of our joint account.

The truth was, there was no mortgage. My father had bought the apartment outright and transferred the title to my name.

"$1,600,000..." he managed to choke out. "You make $10,000 a month. Where did you..."

"Separate finances," I cut him off. "That was your idea."

I picked up my coffee and headed toward the bedroom.

As I passed him, I paused for half a step. "Starting this month, since you're living in my apartment, the market rate is $12,000 a month. Send it to my card by the end of the month."

I didn't turn around to look at his face, but I heard the heaviness of his breathing and the dull thud of the brown paper envelope hitting the floor.

He made $25,000 a month, just over $20,000 take-home after taxes. Rent alone would eat up more than half of that. Well, he was the one who had insisted on splitting things.

David didn't say a word to me for the rest of the day. He shut himself in the study, and through the crack in the door, I could see him scrolling through his phone, making calls, searching for something.

I guessed he was looking up our prenuptial agreement.

Go on and look.

Before we even married, he pushed for a prenup to keep our assets separate. He honestly thought he was getting the raw deal, making $7,000 a month back then, while I had nothing.

He assumed I agreed to it because I felt guilty, because I had nothing to offer. How ironic.

At three in the afternoon, he finally came out of the study. He looked even worse than he had that morning, but he was doing his best to keep it together, forcing his voice to stay steady.

"Emily, let's talk," he said.

I was sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine without even looking up. "About what?"

"About this place." He sat down across from me, his hands clenched so tight his knuckles were white. "What's... what's the deal with your family?"

"Does that have anything to do with keeping our finances separate?" I asked.

He went silent. I flipped to the next page of my magazine. "David, just ask whatever you want to know."

He took a deep breath. "What does your dad actually do?"

"He's retired," I replied.

"And before that?" he pressed.

I closed the magazine and looked him straight in the eye. "We've been married for three years, and you've never once asked me that. Now you're suddenly interested?"

He swallowed hard.

I stood up and put the magazine back on the shelf. "My dad has nothing to do with our split finances. All you need to know is that this apartment, the parking spot, and the car are all my premarital property."

"The car too?" he blurted out, jumping to his feet.

That black Volvo in the underground garage. He had been driving it for three years, handling the maintenance and gas, treating it like it belonged to him.

"Did you ever bother to check whose name is on the registration?" I asked.

He didn't say a word. Of course, he hadn't. He never cared about that stuff. He thought everything in this house was his, since he was the breadwinner.

That $25,000-a-month salary made him so smug that he never bothered to face the truth.

"So," I said, picking up the remote from the coffee table and turning off the TV, "starting today, you can keep using the car, but it'll cost you $1,000 a month. Gas and insurance are on you. Or you can just go buy your own."

His face flushed red. "Emily, what are you trying to say?"

"What do you mean?" I looked at him. "Separate finances. That was your idea."

"I meant just splitting the everyday bills, not..." David protested.

"Not what? Not counting every little thing?" I gave a small laugh. "David, what were your exact words? 'Whatever either of us spends on ourselves, we cover ourselves.' Isn't housing an expense? Isn't using the car an expense?"

David opened his mouth to speak, but the words just wouldn't come.

"And another thing," I said, gesturing to the couch, TV, and dining table. "All this furniture and appliances? I bought them before marriage. If you want to keep using them, I'll charge you rent based on depreciation. Or, you can just move out."

"Are you crazy?" he blurted out.

"I'm not crazy." I headed to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. "I'm just doing what you suggested."

He stood in the middle of the living room, fists clenched, his chest heaving.

I took a sip of water, my voice light, as if we were just talking about the weather. "Oh, and tomorrow's Sunday. When you take Sophia out for dinner, make sure you pay out of your own account. Don't swipe the wrong card."

He froze. It was like I'd just hit him in the back of the head with a hammer.

"You, you how did you know?" he stammered.

"Separate finances, remember?" I waved my phone at him. "Any charge on your supplementary card pings my phone. Last Thursday, a two-Michelin-star place. Dinner for two. $290."

His face went from red to pale.

I didn't say anything else. I just took my glass and headed back to the bedroom.

The moment the door clicked shut, I heard a dull thud from the living room. He had kicked over the footstool under the coffee table.

Go on, kick it. That footstool cost $1,600. Damage it and you pay full price.