With shaking hands, I reached for my phone on the bedside table.
I opened my banking app, already knowing what I’d find but hoping desperately that I was wrong.
$0.00.
Checking account: $0.00.
Savings account: $0.00.
Emergency fund: $0.00.
Every account I had—drained completely.
Eighty-three thousand, four hundred and seventeen dollars. Gone.
Every overtime shift I’d worked. Every bonus I’d saved. Every dollar I’d carefully set aside for our future.
Stolen while I grieved the loss of our child.
My hands trembled as I opened the transaction history.
Four transfers. All made between 1:12 AM and 1:17 AM. While I was sedated and helpless.
The recipient wasn’t a hospital. Wasn’t a medical billing company. Wasn’t anything that made sense for an emergency situation.
It was a luxury real estate firm.
Sterling Heights Properties. Specializing in exclusive estates in Hidden Valley.
The most expensive neighborhood in the city. Where houses started at half a million dollars.
Michael had used my fingerprint—taken from my unconscious hand while I lay grieving our dead baby—to steal my life savings and buy his mother a house.
I sat in that hospital bed, staring at my phone, and felt something crack inside me.
Not grief this time. Something colder. Harder.
Rage.
When Michael returned that afternoon, he was carrying coffee. Two cups, like we were just a normal couple dealing with a sad situation together.
He didn’t even pretend to look devastated anymore. That mask had been for the nurses yesterday.
Today, alone with me, he didn’t bother.
“Hey,” he said casually, handing me one of the cups. “How are you feeling?”
How was I feeling? How was I feeling?
I’d lost our baby twelve hours ago. He’d stolen my entire life savings six hours ago.
And he was asking how I was feeling like we were discussing the weather.
“Thanks for the fingerprint, by the way,” he added, settling into the chair beside my bed.
The casual cruelty of it stole my breath.
“Excuse me?”
“The transfers went through perfectly. We put a down payment on a gorgeous house in Hidden Valley. Five bedrooms, pool, the works.” He smiled. “Mom’s over the moon. She’s been wanting to move to that neighborhood for years.”
I stared at him. This man I’d married. This man whose child I’d just lost. This man who was sitting here grinning about buying his mother a mansion with my money.
Instead of crying—though God knows I had tears left—I laughed.
It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t even hysteria. It was something darker. Colder.
Disbelief mixed with fury mixed with something I couldn’t quite name.
Michael’s smile faltered. “What’s funny?”
“You,” I said quietly. “You’re funny.”
“Emma, are you okay? Maybe we should talk to the doctors about your mental state—”
“You really thought my fingerprint was enough?”
He blinked. “What?”
“You really thought you could just use my fingerprint and steal everything I’ve worked for?”
His expression shifted. Wariness crept in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You took my fingerprint last night. While I was sedated. While I was grieving. You used it to transfer eighty-three thousand dollars to buy your mother a house.”
He studied me for a moment. Then, slowly, his expression changed.
The fake concern disappeared. What replaced it was something uglier. Triumphant.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “I did.”
No denial. No apology. Just cold confirmation.
“And there’s nothing you can do about it,” he continued. “The transfers are done. The down payment is made. The house is in escrow.”
“Is it?” I asked quietly.
“Emma, don’t be stupid. Your fingerprint authorized everything. The bank processed it. It’s over.”
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