“Since we’re discussing finances,” Austin said, pulling out his phone, “maybe we should make things clear.”
The nurse near the door looked uncomfortable.
But Austin continued.
“When the divorce papers arrive, don’t expect anything.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“The condo is in my name.”
He smiled.
“The SUV payments come from my account.”
Then he lowered his voice.
“And the savings account? You know how much is there.”
He tapped his phone.
“Enough to make sure you regret leaving.”
I stared at him.
“Austin.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know whose money built that account?”
He frowned.
“My salary.”
I almost laughed.
“No.”
His expression hardened.
“Excuse me?”
“You really believe that?”
Eleanor stepped forward.
“Don’t play games with him.”
I looked at both of them.
“You have no idea what you’ve been living on.”
Austin’s smile disappeared slightly.
Then he recovered.
“You’re bluffing.”
That was the word I expected.
Because men like Austin always believed power came from titles.
From offices.
From people knowing their names.
They never realized real power often sat quietly in the background.
The next morning, my attorney Jonathan arrived.
He placed a thick folder on my hospital table.
“Everything has started.”
Austin’s company audit.
The property review.
The financial investigation.
All of it.
