Chapter 1

My husband claimed he made half a million dollars a year and told me to spend whatever I wanted. Yet, he monitored me so closely I practically had to ask permission for an iced coffee.

On our wedding day, Mark made grand promises in front of everyone. His mother held my hand, telling me how lucky I was.

Six months in, I went to Whole Foods for groceries. The second I walked through the door, he shoved his phone in my face.

"From now on, shop at the discount marts! Everything at Whole Foods is ridiculously overpriced. Do you think my money grows on trees?"

He told me I didn’t deserve an iced coffee, that buying a thirty-dollar shirt was a waste, and even degraded me for buying a seventy-dollar skincare set.

Until one late night, his phone screen lit up: "Thanks for the universe gift, babe! Love you so much~"

He had spent over four hundred thousand dollars tipping a TikTok streamer without batting an eye.

I set his phone down, silent and calm. No screaming, no fighting.

Instead, I used every spare minute to study, secretly preparing for the CPA exam while sending out resumes and doing interviews.

Three years later, holding my CPA certification and an offer letter for a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar salary, I slammed the divorce papers right in front of him.

Mark slammed his phone onto the coffee table in front of me. The screen faced up, glaring and harsh.

"Chloe, explain this to me. What the hell did you spend six dollars on?"

I looked down. It was the transaction alert from the iced latte I bought at the mall this afternoon. He saw every single cent I spent.

He had texted me the second I paid. Now, the moment he got home from work, the interrogation began.

"It was hot outside. I picked it up while window shopping."

"Picked it up?" Mark let out a cold sneer. He stood up from the couch and towered over me.

"A six-dollar latte? Do you think you deserve to drink that?"

"When I’m out networking, I hesitate before buying a bottle of water. And you blow six dollars on cheap coffee? You really think you’re some rich trophy wife, don’t you?"

I stayed silent. Over the past three years, I had heard this lecture too many times.

Seeing me shut down only fueled his rage. He snatched my purse and dumped it across the table.

My wallet, lip balm, and tissues spilled everywhere. He grabbed the paper receipt, scanned it line by line, then cross-checked it with his phone notifications.

"Who were you with? Meeting some guy behind my back? Tell me!"

"I was shopping alone. I drank it alone."

"Alone?" He leaned in, the stench of alcohol from his breath turning my stomach.

"You really think I’m stupid? Chloe, don’t think for a second you can fool around on my dime."

"Let me remind you: I track every single penny. Step out of line, and I will make your life a living hell."

With that, he crumpled the receipt into a tight ball and threw it directly in my face.

It bounced off my cheek and hit the floor.

I bent down, flattened the paper, and tossed it into the trash can.

It had become muscle memory.

Six months after we got married, Mark bragged about his massive income and insisted I quit my job to stay home and relax.

In front of all our family and friends, he puffed out his chest and declared, "My wife can spend whatever she wants. Whatever makes her happy."

His mother held my hand warmly, saying, "Chloe, you’re so blessed. Marrying my son means you’re set for life."

I actually believed them.

The first week of our marriage, he gave me a supplementary credit card, telling me to put all household expenses on it.

Back then, I felt touched. I thought he was truly generous.

Six months later, I bought some fresh fruit from Whole Foods. The moment I walked into the house, he shoved his screen into my face.

"Twenty-five dollars? What kind of fruit did you buy?"

"Just some normal fruit. Strawberries and blueberries."

"Return them. Is our baby’s formula supposed to come out of this budget, too? Can you try acting like a responsible mother for once?"

"Shop at discount marts from now on! Whole Foods is ridiculously overpriced. Do you think my money grows on trees?"

That was when I learned every swipe of that card triggered an immediate notification to his phone.

Every transaction, down to the last cent, was tracked.

When I bought a thirty-dollar blouse, he inspected it like contraband:

"Did you buy this for that deadbeat family of yours? Taking care of you isn't enough, now I have to fund your entire family?"

I told him it was for me. He held the collar up, turning it over three times, before sneering:

"You think you’re worth wearing thirty dollars? You think you have that kind of value?"

I bought a skincare kit for seventy dollars, meant to last three full months.

The moment the alert pinged, he exploded:

"What are you putting on that face of yours that costs seventy dollars? Gold dust? Take a look in the mirror—anything you put on that face is a pure waste of money."

Eventually, I learned my lesson and tried using cash. But he only ever gave me that card; I had no independent cash at all.

Whenever I went to the ATM to withdraw money, the interrogation began:

"How much? For what? What shady business do you need cash for?"

Once, driven past my breaking point, I told him I wanted to get a job.

He laughed in my face.

"You? Get a job? Do you even remember what your college major was?"

"You got married right out of school and haven't worked in three years. What can you do? Wait tables?"

"Making minimum wage won't even cover the baby's formula! Stop embarrassing me and stay home to look after our kid."

I almost believed him. I almost let him convince me that I was completely useless, capable of nothing, and entirely unable to survive without him.

Until last week.

Mark came home wasted that night. He plugged his phone in on the nightstand, and the screen flashed on.

I hadn’t planned on looking, but the banner notification popped up, sitting brazenly on the lock screen:

"Thanks for the universe gift, babe! Love you so much~ 😘"

I picked up his phone. I tried his birthday—wrong passcode.

I tried our wedding anniversary—wrong again. Finally, I entered his mother’s birthday, and it unlocked.

I opened his streaming app and checked his transaction history.

Row after row, clear as crystal.

A universe gift, five hundred dollars. A mega rocket, three hundred dollars. A luxury carriage, one hundred and fifty dollars.

Starting early last year, bit by bit, he had dumped over four hundred thousand dollars into the stream of a girl named "Princess Mia."

Four hundred thousand dollars.

He berated me for half an hour over a six-dollar iced latte.

He degraded my worth over a thirty-dollar blouse.

He claimed a seventy-dollar skincare set was a total waste.

Yet he threw four hundred thousand dollars at a stranger behind a screen without flinching once.

And all "Princess Mia" had ever texted him were barely twenty generic lines:

"Thank you, babe."

"You're the best, babe."

"Love you~"

That was it. Four hundred thousand dollars for a few hollow words.

Staring at the screen, an eerie calm washed over me.

It wasn't the silence before an explosive rage; it was the chilling stillness that comes when you finally see through someone down to their rotten core.

I set the phone back down, laid on the very edge of the bed, and stared at the ceiling for the rest of the night.

The next morning, Mark woke up with a hangover, rubbing his temples as he stumbled into the bathroom.

I sat at the breakfast table, burying everything from the night before, speaking not a single word.

When he walked out and saw me, his first words were, "You didn’t waste any money today, did you?"

"No," I replied calmly.

He nodded in satisfaction, grabbed his briefcase, and headed out for work.

The moment the front door clicked shut behind him, staring at the empty hallway, one truth became crystal clear:

Depending on anyone else is a trap. If I want freedom, I need credentials that no one can ever take away from me.

I opened my laptop and typed three letters into the search bar: CPA exam.