"Good morning, babe," Derek called out.
I stopped halfway into the living room. My fingers tightened around the thick, gold-crested envelope Julian Vance had handed me hours ago.
Derek stood by the stove. He wore the navy-blue apron I bought him for Christmas, expertly flipping a sunny-side-up egg. The smell of sizzling butter filled the apartment we had shared for three years.
"You're up early," he said. He shot me a warm, practiced smile over his shoulder. He didn't mention the underground garage. He didn't mention Mia. He acted exactly as if I had just returned from a long shift at the diner.
"I made coffee," he added. He pointed a spatula at the steaming mug on the counter. "Sit down. We need to talk about some paperwork before I head to the office."
I stayed glued to the floorboards. "Paperwork."
"Yeah, just a minor headache." He transferred the egg to a ceramic plate, setting it next to a glass of warm milk. "The dealership called my cell this morning. They need the physical title and registration documents for the Cayenne. Just a clerical error with the warranty processing."
He wiped his hands on a dish towel and stepped toward me. His expression remained composed.
"Why would they call you?" I asked. "My name is on the purchase agreement."
Derek waved a hand dismissively. "I'm the primary driver. It's standard procedure for luxury vehicles. Anyway, where did you put the folder? I want to drop it off on my way to the startup incubator."
He reached out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
I swatted his hand away.
Derek frowned. He let his arm drop to his side. "What's your problem? I'm trying to handle the administrative mess so you don't have to worry about it."
I stared at his polished brown loafers. He always wore them around the house when he wanted to feel like a wealthy CEO.
I walked past him to the counter. I picked up the glass of hot milk and turned back to face him.
"A clerical error," I repeated.
"Exactly," he said. He held out his hand. "Just grab the folder from your desk drawer, Chloe."
I tilted my wrist.
The steaming white liquid splashed directly onto his expensive leather loafers and splattered against his bare ankles.
"What the hell are you doing?" Derek shouted. He jumped backward, swiping at his soaked pant legs. "Are you insane? These cost five hundred dollars!"
"Saving you a trip to the dealership," I said. My voice stayed flat.
I pulled my phone from my jacket pocket, unlocked the screen, and shoved it inches from his face.
The high-resolution photo of him and Mia half-naked in the Porsche glared under the harsh kitchen lights.
"You think I'm stupid, Derek?" I asked. "You want the title so you can transfer my car into your twenty-two-year-old mistress's name. You're trying to give Mia the vehicle I paid for."
Derek stared at the screen. His jaw tightened. The friendly fiancé facade melted away in an instant. His eyes darkened, fixing on the digital image.
"You didn't delete them," he said. His tone dropped into a dangerous, icy register.
"I backed them up to three different cloud servers," I replied. I pocketed the phone. "And I have the physical title locked in a safety deposit box you don't have the key to."
"You have no right to keep that car hostage," he snapped. He took a step forward. "My investors expect me to show up looking like a success. I need that Porsche to secure my next round of funding."
"You need it to impress a young heiress," I corrected. "You're selling out our engagement to fund a startup that hasn't made one dime in three years."
Derek lunged.
His hands clamped around the collar of my denim jacket. He twisted the fabric so hard it dug sharply into my neck. He slammed me backward. My spine hit the kitchen counter with a dull thud, rattling the ceramic plates behind me.
"Listen to me, you crazy bitch," he snarled. His face hovered inches from mine. The smell of his peppermint toothpaste made my stomach turn. "You are going to hand over that folder right now."
"Or what?" I choked out. I gripped his wrists.
"Or I will bury you!" he roared. Spittle flew from his lips. "You think you can play games with me? You are a waitress! A nobody! Mia comes from a family that could crush you by snapping their fingers. You have no money, no background, and no power to fight her."
He shook me. His fingers dug bruising crescents into my collarbone.
"Give me the damn title, Chloe. You owe me for putting up with your pathetic, penny-pinching lifestyle for three years. I deserve that car!"
My right arm swung upward before my brain even processed the command.
Smack.
My palm connected with his cheekbone in a explosive crack. The force of the blow snapped his head to the side.
Derek froze. His hands loosened their grip on my jacket. A bright red handprint blossomed across his pale skin.
He stared at the kitchen wall. He looked stunned, his chest heaving. He had never expected me to strike back. For three years, I had been the quiet, supportive fiancée who worked double shifts and swallowed every insult to fuel his dreams.
Not anymore.
I shoved his chest with both hands. I broke his hold completely.
"I don't owe you one cent," I said. I smoothed down my crumpled collar. "But you owe me fifty thousand dollars and a Porsche."
I turned my back on him and walked straight into the bedroom. My packed suitcase already sat by the foot of the bed. I had assembled it during the early hours of the morning before he woke up.
I grabbed the extendable handle and dragged the wheels across the hardwood floor.
"Where do you think you're going?" Derek yelled from the kitchen. His shock rapidly morphed back into rage. Heavy footsteps pounded against the floorboards as he chased after me.
"Anywhere but here," I said. I rolled the luggage into the hallway.
He stepped in front of the front door, blocking my exit. "If you walk out that door, you get nothing! I'll make sure my lawyers leave you with the clothes on your back!"
"Move, Derek."
"You think you can just leave?" he sneered. He crossed his arms over his chest. "You'll be crawling back to me by tomorrow when you realize you can't afford rent on your own."
I rammed the suitcase directly into his shins.
He cursed and stumbled sideways.
I pushed the front door open and stepped out into the cool corridor air. I didn't look back as I pulled the wood shut. The lock clicked firmly into place, cutting off his shouting.
I stood in the quiet hallway. My pulse pounded in my ears.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out and stared at the glowing screen.
A text message from an unknown number sat at the top of my notifications.
Twenty-four hours. The video is ready.
