Aria's reply came fast.
"Just asked around. Last week, Mary Pruitt was putting together a damages proposal for a client and misplaced a decimal point. Off by a whole digit. The client ended up overclaiming by three hundred thousand dollars, and the other side countersued. It should've been escalated to the managing director, but Brad buried it. Paid the three hundred grand out of his own pocket to cover the hole."
"Everyone at the firm knows?"
"Everyone. They're all whispering about how Brad's got it bad for this intern. 'Going to war over a pretty face'—that's the phrase making the rounds."
Got it bad.
I stared at my phone screen.
A wave of nausea rolled through me.
At ten that night, I came home.
Brad was on the couch reviewing case files.
He didn't look up when the door opened.
"Straighten your shoes. That's minus two points."
I looked down at the slippers in the entryway.
I took off my shoes, lined them up side by side, and set them flush against the red tile border.
Not a millimeter off.
I walked over and placed the thumbprinted IOU on the coffee table.
He picked it up, glanced at it.
"Good. Filed. Interest starts accruing tomorrow—don't forget."
He slid the IOU into a clear document folder.
That folder held every piece of our "marriage paperwork." The prenup. The point system. Itemized penalty records going back years.
Now it had a promissory note too.
"Brad," I said.
"Hm?"
"Have you had a lot of extra cash lying around lately?"
His fingers paused on the keyboard.
"Why are you asking?"
"No reason. Just impressed you could hand over a hundred thousand like it was nothing."
He adjusted his glasses.
"I'm a senior attorney. A couple of big cases and the money's there. You think everyone's like you, scraping by on that pathetic salary of yours?"
"Fair enough." I nodded. "By the way, how's the family fund account doing? The returns been good?"
He frowned.
"Why are you asking about that? You're in negative points. You don't have access privileges."
"Just curious."
"The investment products are in a lock-up period. There's nothing to see right now. Worry about your own score."
He closed his laptop.
"I'm hungry. Go make me some noodles."
"I'm exhausted today."
"Making noodles earns five points. Your score is embarrassing right now."
I looked at him.
"Fine."
I walked into the kitchen.
Opened the fridge.
A QR code was taped to the inside of the door.
Unauthorized consumption of premium ingredients—scan to pay.
That was a rule he'd added last month.
Because I'd pan-seared a cut of Wagyu he'd bought without asking his permission first.
I grabbed two eggs and a bundle of dried noodles.
The water boiled. I dropped the noodles in.
I stood at the stove, watching the bubbles churn.
I was a data analyst.
Every day at work, I processed millions of data points. Hunted for anomalies. Built risk-control models.
But I had never once turned that skill set on my own marriage.
Because I'd believed marriage was a safe harbor.
Now I knew better.
It was a slaughterhouse.
The noodles were done. I carried the bowl out.
He took one bite.
"Not enough salt. Minus one point."
I said nothing.
He ate his noodles, phone lying on the table.
The screen lit up.
A WhatsApp notification slid into view.
From: Mary Pruitt.
"Mr. Mason, my ankle hurts sooo bad today. Can I come in half an hour late for tomorrow's case? Pleeeease?"
Brad glanced at it, picked up his phone, and typed a reply.
I was standing just behind him, off to the side.
I saw what he wrote: "Just this once. Don't forget to put ointment on it."
He sent it and set the phone down.
"Tomorrow's Saturday. I want this place cleaned top to bottom. If I find a single hair in the bathroom corners, that's minus ten points."
