Chapter 3

Three years later, Mark dropped over twenty thousand dollars on Princess Mia in a single evening.

It was his birthday. I had spent hours preparing a celebratory dinner and chilling a gourmet cake, waiting for him to walk through the door.

At nine that night, a brief message popped up on my phone: "Business dinner tonight. Don't wait up."

I didn't bother replying. I stored the dishes and the cake in the fridge, unlocked my phone, and opened TikTok.

There was Princess Mia, batting her lashes at the camera.

"Thank you so much for the mega gift, Mark! Happy birthday to my absolute favorite!"

"You're spoiling me even on your special day. You're the sweetest."

Screen effects lit up the live feed while Mark's username sat firmly at the top of the leaderboard with a glowing badge.

On his own birthday, he dropped thousands on a screen, leaving his family behind.

I closed the app, took the small strawberry cake back out, and placed a single candle in the center.

What was my wish?

Only that I passed the final section of the CPA exam.

I blew out the candle and ate a quiet slice. It tasted surprisingly sweet.

Three days later, the scores were released. I passed.

Sitting in that quiet corner of the library, staring at the portal screen, my hands trembled violently.

It wasn't just excitement; it was years of suppressed tension finally releasing.

I felt like screaming, crying, and breaking things all at once. Instead, I gently rested my forehead against the desk for five long minutes.

Then I sat up, saved the official score report, and uploaded it to my secure folder.

Next came the job hunt.

I submitted applications to over twenty accounting firms and landed five interviews.

Ultimately, I chose a Big Four firm. It wasn't purely about the compensation, but because their corporate structure provided total financial self-sufficiency. In the interview, I was completely transparent: I was finalizing a divorce and required a stable, competitive career to provide for myself and my daughter.

The partner studied my resume and nodded.

"You cleared all CPA sections on your own and have sharp analytical skills. That's the talent we need. Your personal life is your own business."

The starting package cleared six figures—fully earned, fully mine.

My start date was set for one month out. That gave me thirty days to bring down the curtain.

I finalized my dossiers. Every monthly statement from the past three years was meticulously organized into an itemized spreadsheet, cross-referencing his insults over petty expenses like a morning coffee, an inexpensive blouse, or essential toiletries against his actual domestic obligations.

His digital donations to the streamer were chronologically ordered down to the exact cent.

With the guidance of a family law attorney, the property transfers were formally mapped out: two homes funded entirely through marital income while registered to his relatives clearly constituted dissipation of marital property. Bank statements, wire transfers, and recurring mortgage debits stood ready.

The tax discrepancies were neatly bundled alongside them.

I drafted the separation terms myself, grounding every clause in concrete family law rather than generic internet templates.

For asset distribution: full equity in our primary home to offset the dissipated value hidden in the properties transferred to his family.

For unauthorized transfers: complete reimbursement for marital funds gifted to third parties without consent.

For parental rights: sole physical and legal custody of our child, ensuring she wouldn't be raised in his toxic environment.

Reviewing the paperwork, the attorney raised an eyebrow. "This draft is tighter than what most junior associates put together."

"Thank you," I replied evenly.

What I didn't say was that drafting it required poring through hundreds of precedent cases and statutory interpretations during long, sleepless nights.

Once the paperwork was finalized, I waited for the right moment.

I didn't want to strike when he was angry; I needed him relaxed, arrogant, and entirely off guard.

That was when his guard would drop completely.

Three days later, he returned home in exceptionally high spirits, offering to take me out for dinner.

When I asked what had happened, he bragged that his promotion had come through, bumping his annual compensation package even higher.

"Stick with me, Chloe, and you're set for life," he beamed, throwing an arm around my shoulder with supreme arrogance.

"Look at other women out there—none of them have it as good as you. You don't have to lift a finger, and you have all the stability in the world."

"Sounds wonderful," I murmured.

He continued casually, "By the way, Ashley wants to put a down payment on a new car and needs thirty grand. I told her I'd cover it. You don't mind, right?"

Looking right into his eyes, I answered softly, "Not at all."

Satisfied, he pulled out his phone to initiate the wire transfer.

Watching him type, the very last shred of hesitation vanished from my heart.

Thirty grand for his sister without batting an eye.

Hundreds of thousands on an online streamer without a single regret.

Yet a six-dollar iced latte for his wife was treated like a capital offense.