Chapter 4
Three years of marriage? What a joke.
I pulled out my phone and opened a private, encrypted album.
There was only one photo in it.
It showed a gold bar, rough and tinged with a dark red hue.
It was the only keepsake my mother left me after she passed.
After she got laid off, she took on nanny jobs and knitted sweaters, scraping together every cent until she could finally trade it for gold.
She always said gold was solid, it would never lose its value, and one day, I could use it for my wedding.
Later, I melted down all the gold jewelry my mom left behind, along with that gold bar, and had it recast into a 160-ounce investment bar.
I told Anabella it was just an investment.
But I never told her that inside that bar was all the longing I had for my mother.
And now, she'd traded away all that for pocket change.
The thought of it was like an invisible hand squeezing my heart so hard that I could hardly breathe.
Outside, Anabella's sobs and her banging on the door echoed on and off.
She shouted, "Arthur, please open the door!
"I know I messed up, just forgive me this once!
"Let's not get divorced, okay? I can't live without you…"
I blocked out her cries, my eyes locked on the image of that gold bar on my phone screen.
After a long moment, I messaged my lawyer and childhood friend, Tommy Roberts.
I typed: [Get a divorce agreement ready for me by tomorrow.]
After a pause, I added another message.
[And start the asset liquidation process for Nexora Capital. I'm done with it.]
Tommy called me back almost instantly.
"What the hell? Zain, are you out of your mind? Nexora Capital is on fire right now. We're pulling in almost forty percent annual returns, and you want to bail out now? Is Anabella giving you a hard time again?"
Nexora Capital was a private fund that Tommy, two other buddies, and I set up five years ago.
I was just a silent partner, never got involved in the daily grind, but I held a thirty percent stake.
All these years, I kept pouring every dividend and profit right back in, just letting it snowball year after year.
Anabella never had a clue.
She figured I was just some regular coder pulling in ninety grand a year, and that our biggest assets were that 1,000 sq ft apartment and the 160-ounce gold bar she was so proud of.
She had no idea that those 160 ounces of gold were just a drop in the bucket to me.
But what she really didn't understand was that those 160 ounces meant more to me than all the money in the world.
"I'm not crazy," I said calmly to Tommy over the phone. "She sold what my mom left behind for me."
Tommy went silent for a moment.
He knew what that gold bar meant to me.
After a long pause, he finally burst out, "Damn! That crazy woman! Zain, just say the word, whatever you want, your brothers are with you. Forget about liquidating assets, even if you want my head, it's yours!"
"No need," I replied, my voice eerily calm. "Just do what I said. Divorce, liquidation. I don't want a single cent of mine tied to her anymore."
"Alright! I get it. I'll draft the agreement tonight and make sure she leaves with nothing! And that scammer Braylon Patton? I'll look into him too. If anyone dares mess with my friend's family, I'll make sure he rots in jail!"
After I hung up, the fury that had been boiling inside me finally cooled, leaving behind nothing but a cold, unyielding stone.
Anabella, you brought this on yourself.
The next morning, when I stepped out of my study, Anabella was slumped on the living room couch, looking like she hadn't slept in days, those massive dark circles under her eyes making her look half-dead.
On the coffee table lay a sheet of paper, covered in her handwriting, her apology letter from last night.
When she saw me, she shot to her feet, forcing a smile that looked even more miserable than crying.
"Arthur, you're up? I made breakfast for you," Anabella said, her voice shaky.
I ignored her and walked straight over to the coffee table, picking up the paper.
Her handwriting was messy, and in a lot of spots, the ink was blurred by tears, but you could still make out the main story.
Three months ago, she'd secretly used the spare key to open the safe, found some small gold shop, and sold the 160-ounce bar for just 2,510 dollars per ounce, for a total of roughly 390 thousand dollars.
Then she'd split the money into three transfers and sent it straight to Braylon's personal account.
She'd even slapped some ugly screenshots of the transfers onto the paper with glue.
Once I'd read it all, I folded the paper up, tucked it into my pocket, and didn't say a word.