I read it twice, anger building like a slow, rising tide. Then I deleted it.
Sleep never came that night. Instead, I replayed a year’s worth of memories—every innocent moment turning dark. The times she “borrowed” my laptop. The time she asked for my banking password to “double-check the transfer.” Her casual assurances:
“Don’t worry, I’m keeping track of everything. Full transparency.”
Transparency. The word seared itself into my brain.
Hands trembling, I opened my laptop and logged into my bank account. I pulled up the transfer history.
And there it was—months of deposits, every single one pulled from my account… straight into hers.
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