Chapter 2 - The Audit of a ParasiteThe screen of my iPhone glowed harshly in the darkened kitchen as I dialed Marcus Vance—not related to Emily, though the shared surname was a grimly ironic touch. Marcus was senior partner at Vance & Sterling Forensic Accounting, and he was the only person in Indianapolis who could dissect a corporate balance sheet faster than I could.
"Rebecca?" Marcus’s voice rasped through the speaker, thick with sleep. "It’s past seven-thirty. Tell me this isn't a logistics crisis for the morning freight run."
"Worse, Marcus," I said, leaning against the cold quartz island. "It’s domestic. I need you to run a full asset trace on Daniel Lawson and his boutique distribution LLC, effective immediately. Every corporate account, every hidden line of credit, and specifically any real estate filings involving my pre-owned property on Bridlewood Way."
There was a brief rustle of bedsheets on the other end, followed by the sound of a lamp clicking on. Marcus’s professional tone snapped into place instantly. "Daniel? Didn't he just expand his warehouse lease last quarter?"
"He thinks he did," I replied, my eyes fixed on the formal partition appraisal sitting on the entryway console. "He also thinks he’s walking away to live a romantic, bohemian life with a woman named Emily Vance. But before he enjoys his authentic awakening, I want to know every cent of corporate liquidity he’s funneled out of our joint accounts to fund her apartment off Keystone."
"Consider it done," Marcus muttered, typing furiously. "Give me twelve hours. If he’s played games with corporate distributions while maintaining personal exposure, I’ll find the paper trail."
I hung up and walked back to the kitchen island. My weekly planner lay open, neat and orderly, unaffected by the tectonic shift that had just occurred in my personal life. For eight years, I had treated Daniel’s professional shortcomings with institutional grace. When his business accounts dipped into the red, my logistics consulting revenue quietly bridged the gap. When he wanted to upgrade his vehicle every three years, I structured the lease so his credit score wouldn't take a hit. I had acted as his chief financial officer, his PR manager, and his domestic caretaker.
And his reward for my unwavering support? A calculated betrayal, timed precisely to coincide with a fraudulent real estate grab.
I unlocked my phone again and tapped the contact card for Sarah Jenkins, my executive assistant and the fiercely loyal bulldog who managed my calendar, travel, and personal estate maintenance. It was late, but Sarah lived for operational efficiency.
The phone rang twice before her crisp voice answered. "Rebecca. If this is about the morning conference deck for the logistics board, the slides are already rendered in your Drive."
"No, Sarah. The board deck can wait. I need you to execute three immediate administrative orders."
"I'm listening."
"First, contact our corporate merchant processor and freeze all supplementary corporate and personal credit cards tied to Daniel Lawson’s Social Security number, effective immediately."
A sharp intake of breath hissed through Sarah’s receiver. "Frozen? All of them?"
"Every single one," I said, my voice as level as a carpenter’s spirit level. "If he tries to buy a latte or check into a boutique hotel, I want the terminal to spit out a restricted-access error code."
"Done. What’s the second order?"
"Contact Meridian Health & Elder Care. Cancel the automatic monthly renewal for Marilyn Lawson’s specialized memory-care medication regimen and professional nursing stipend, tied to my personal account."
Sarah paused, confusion warring with professional compliance. "Wait—Daniel’s mother? Rebecca, cutting off Marilyn’s medication? Are you sure? That’s—”
"I am entirely sure," I interrupted, the memory of Marilyn’s cold, dismissive sneers over the past eight years flashing behind my eyes. Whenever Daniel’s family gathered, Marilyn never missed an opportunity to remind everyone that her son had lowered his standards by marrying a woman who cared more about profit margins than popping out grandchildren. "Daniel wants to live a simple, authentic life free from my corporate burden? Excellent. That authenticity includes funding his own mother’s healthcare out of his own pocket, rather than letting my enterprise-driven income subsidize his filial obligations."
"Understood," Sarah said, her voice hardening with quiet alignment. "And the third order?"
"Call Apex Lock & Security first thing at 7:00 AM tomorrow. Have them meet me at the house on Bridlewood Way at 8:00 AM sharp. I want every exterior deadbolt rekeyed, the smart-home keypad access codes wiped, and the garage door transmitters reprogrammed. When Daniel comes back for his clothes, he’s going to need a formal appointment."
"Consider it handled," Sarah said. "Consider the perimeter secured."
I ended the call and walked upstairs to our master suite. The king-sized bed was pristine, the decorative pillows arranged with mathematical precision. In the walk-in closet, Daniel’s side was already half-empty—the tailored suits gone, the dress shoes missing from their cedar trees. He had been packing in secret for days, whispering sweet nothings to his simple, non-materialistic muse while sleeping beside the woman whose income paid his electric bill.
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I opened his dresser drawer. Tucked beneath a stack of folded golf shirts was a small velvet jeweler’s box. I popped the lid. Inside lay a delicate gold pendant encrusted with cheap cubic zirconia—not the kind of heirloom piece Daniel had ever bought me, but a token of his new, unpretentious romance.
I closed the box, tossed it into the trash can beside the desk, and sat down at my laptop. My three client onboarding calls were waiting. The world would not stop turning just because a mediocre man had decided to play romantic hero in a cheap melodrama.
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