Chapter 4

"Ms. Evelyn, your rent is due today. Please transfer the payment when you can."

The landlord stood at my door, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his eyes sweeping over the dismal little room behind me.

"I'll send it now."

I pulled out my phone and opened my banking app.

Account balance: $0.00.

I froze.

There was supposed to be three thousand dollars in there—money Julian had "kept safe" for me during the divorce and supposedly returned for my living expenses.

It was there yesterday. Today, it was gone.

I opened the transaction history. At 2:12 AM, a wire transfer of three thousand dollars had been sent to Richard’s account.

The reference line read: "Repayment of Loan."

I had never borrowed a single cent from him.

Seeing me hesitate, the landlord’s face darkened. "Look, Evelyn, I'm not running a charity here. If you're short on cash—"

"Give me three days."

"Fine, three days. If I don't see the money by then, you’ll have to find somewhere else to sleep."

The door slammed shut.

I sat alone on the bed, burying my face in my knees.

Then, my phone buzzed.

It wasn't a message, but an Instagram notification.

Julian had posted. A nine-photo grid showing a gorgeously renovated living room, with a marble dining table overflowing with gourmet food.

Richard sat at the head of the table, Valerie sat snugly beside him, and Julian stood proudly behind them. All three of them were beaming.

The caption read: "First dinner in the new home. Surrounded by the people who love me."

The first comment was from Valerie: "My sweet boy is getting so good at taking photos! ❤️"

Julian replied to her: "Stepmom Valerie makes the best food! 😋"

Below were dozens of comments from their mutual friends.

"The new house is stunning! Richard has amazing taste!"

"What a beautiful family of three!"

"Valerie is finally moved in, congratulations!"

No one mentioned me.

It was as if I had never existed.

I scrolled through them one by one.

When I reached the very last comment, my thumb froze.

It was Harriet.

She wrote: "Julian has grown up so well. Richard, you are truly blessed."

Harriet.

My friend of thirty years.

The one who, three days ago, had told me "I'm worried about you" and "you need to rest."

Now, she was happily leaving congratulatory messages on a family photo of Richard, Valerie, and my son.

I closed the app.

I didn't move for a long time.

Outside, a mother was shouting for her child to come home for dinner, her voice echoing down the street.

The couple next door started screaming again, dishes smashing, tables slamming.

The faucet kept dripping.

One, two, three.

Suddenly, a memory sparked in my mind.

For Julian’s birthday last year, I bought him a new car—not a luxury vehicle, but a decent seventy-thousand-dollar sedan, paid in installments.

On the day we picked it up, I was the one who installed his dashcam. I was also the one who registered the cloud storage account for it.

He didn't understand technology.

I set the password, and it was linked to my phone number.

With trembling fingers, I opened the dashcam app on my cracked screen.

Log in—fingerprint scan—cloud playback.

I dragged the timeline to this afternoon.

Nothing.

He had turned off the dashcam.

I scrolled back to the day of the divorce—four days ago.

The files were there.

I tapped play.

The footage was crystal clear.

From Julian's driver-seat perspective, I could see myself in the rearview mirror, fast asleep in the backseat.

Then, he got out of the car to buy cigarettes.

The Bluetooth was still connected.

Richard’s voice boomed through the speakers: "Julian, did your mother really sign over all the properties to you?"

Julian’s voice replied from the other end: "Of course. Was my acting perfect? The money and the houses are all yours now. Just don't forget the sports car you promised me."

Richard laughed.

"Don't worry. Once the title transfer is officially complete, we won’t have to keep acting for that crazy woman anymore."

My breathing grew heavier, echoing in the musty air of the tiny rental.

The recording kept playing.

Richard said something else that I hadn't heard clearly back then—probably because the Bluetooth signal had briefly cleared up:

"Julian, there’s one more thing. Valerie said don't cut her off completely just yet. There’s still one asset in her name—the title deed to your grandfather Arthur's country estate. Once we get our hands on that, you can deal with your mother however you want."

Julian replied: "Don't worry, Richard. She trusts me so much. She’ll do whatever I say."

I paused the video.

The screen froze on my own face in the rearview mirror—eyes closed, with a peaceful, trusting smile on my lips.

That woman actually believed her son was going to protect her.

I saved the video, synced it to my email, and uploaded a backup copy to Google Drive.

Then, I turned off my phone.

I sat in the dark for a long, long time.

Not until the mother’s shouts faded, and the neighbors’ fighting ceased, ddid I finally stand up and grab my keys.

It was time to make them pay.