Chapter 2

I kept that bank call firmly in my mind, but Chloe kept a tight leash on me, leaving me no room to move.

During the first week of marriage, I claimed my construction project was on a crunch deadline and stayed in the job-site trailer.

When my cab pulled up to the site on the first day, I didn't get out right away.

I leaned back with my eyes closed, replaying every weird detail from before the wedding.

Chloe’s rush, Marcus’s smug looks, that absurd profit transfer contract.

A terrifying realization struck me: this wasn't random greed. It was an elaborate, calculated scheme targeted directly at me.

Once I realized that, my panic evaporated, replaced by cold, calculated fury.

I told the driver, "Change of plans. Take me downtown."

In an electronics shop tucked away in an alley, I spent two hours buying what I needed: a miniature voice recorder and a pinhole camera disguised as a standard phone charger block.

High-definition, night vision, and real-time cloud storage.

On the third day after our wedding, I went home under the pretense of grabbing fresh clothes.

The moment I opened the door, a pair of expensive men's leather shoes sat at the entryway. Cologne mingled with Chloe’s signature perfume, suffocating the entire living room.

Marcus was lounging on the sofa in casual sweatpants. He nodded at me like an old pal.

"Ethan! You're back? Rough day at the site, huh?"

"Chloe said you were swamped, so I dropped by to help sort out the mortgage and investment structure. Perfect timing—I just ordered takeout. Want a bite?"

Chloe stepped out of the master bedroom, wearing a matching silk robe, her wet hair draped over her shoulders.

She didn't look flustered at all. In fact, she looked completely relaxed.

"Ethan, Marcus is staying here for a while to handle business stuff. The master bedroom desk is bigger, which makes it easier for us to work. Since you work late and crash at odd hours, the guest room is quieter and closer to the hall bath. You won't wake us up. Sounds good, right?"

Dressing up total disrespect as "doing what's best for you"—the classic, suffocating manipulation.

I swallowed the rage down.

I just gave a calm nod, slipped off my shoes, and headed straight into the guest bedroom.

I shut the door behind me.

Outside, Marcus’s loud laughter and Chloe’s flirtatious giggles leaked through the walls.

While pretending to unpack, I put on my earbuds.

Through the hall, Marcus's muffled voice drifted in: "...Keep that document locked away... don't let him find it..."

Chloe laughed. "Where would he even look? It's buried in the back of my closet. He never touches my stuff."

At the time, I thought they meant jewelry or cash, so I didn't dwell on it.

Instead, I slid the micro-recorder into the gap behind the nightstand.

Then, I walked into the living room, plugged the fake charger block into an outlet below the TV, and angled the lens toward the sofa.

All footage was routed straight to my secure cloud drive.

Back in the guest room, I locked the door and pulled out my phone, researching criminal fraud, loan forgery, and secondary mortgage laws until dawn.

To win a war, you have to know your enemy's playbook.

The next day was Saturday. I intentionally woke up late.

When I stepped out, Chloe and Marcus were at the dining table having an upscale brunch delivered from a hotel.

Chloe frowned the moment she saw me.

"Why haven't you left for work yet? Just lounging around?"

I pulled out a chair, poured myself a glass of water, and replied flatly, "It's the weekend. The construction site is closed."

Marcus put down his fork, dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, and spoke with condescending pity.

"Ethan, I know this rubs you the wrong way. But you need to face reality. Chloe and I are building an empire. With your pathetic 9-to-5 salary, you can barely afford the mortgage on this place. We're doing you a favor, understand? You should be thanking us."

I looked at his smug face, laughing bitterly on the inside.

Doing me a favor?

Turning my house into your private ATM and tossing me out onto the street—that's your definition of a favor?

I ignored him and looked at Chloe.

"Has the title deed come in yet?"

Chloe hesitated for a fraction of a second, then waved her hand dismissively.

"Still in processing. The city takes forever. Why do you care?"

I pressed further. "Didn't the lender say I had to sign the final paperwork in person before disbursement? When are we going?"

That question made both of them freeze.

They exchanged a quick, guarded glance. Marcus cleared his throat.

"I pulled a few strings and took care of it. You don't need to show up in person. Saved you a trip."

"Is that so?"

I took a sip of water, hiding the cold glare in my eyes.

"Well, thanks a lot. That was very thoughtful of you."

My apparent submissiveness completely lowered their guard.

That afternoon, they dressed up and left the house, claiming they had an appointment with a high-profile investor.

The second their car pulled out of the driveway, I threw on a hoodie and a cap, hailed a cab, and headed straight to the County Recorder’s Office.

Some truths had to be uncovered in person.

At the counter, I slid my ID and purchase contract across the glass.

The clerk typed into her system, then looked up at me with a strange expression.

"Mr. Miller... your title deed was already picked up last Thursday by your authorized agent."

Last Thursday. Exactly three days after we got our marriage license.

My chest tightened, but I kept my face expressionless.

Now wasn't the time to scream. If I blew my cover now, they would cover their tracks in an instant. I needed rock-solid evidence.

"Authorized agent? I never authorized anyone."

The clerk turned the monitor toward me, pointing at an entry.

"See here? There's an electronic Power of Attorney with your notarized signature and ID copy. All paperwork was verified."

On the screen, the signature on the Power of Attorney was identical to mine.

A cold sweat broke out across my back.

When the hell did I ever sign that?

Suddenly, a buried memory detonated in my mind.

A week before our wedding, Chloe had told me she was applying for a high-limit premium credit card on my behalf. She took copies of my driver's license and had me sign several "application forms."

Among them was what she described as a wealth management plan recommended by a certain "Mr. Crane."

I had met that Crane guy once—wire-rimmed glasses, smooth-talking, claiming to manage offshore wealth portfolios.

He had struck me as greasy and manipulative, but Chloe insisted he was a crucial networking connection, so I hadn't pushed it.

Now I knew: that wealth management plan was part of the trap.

They didn't just want my house. From the very beginning, they wanted to bleed me dry.