Chapter 5 - The Counter-Strike
Panic threatened to choke me for a fraction of a second, but years of living with a controlling corporate husband had taught me one vital lesson: never let them see you scramble. David thought he had trapped me, assuming that by cutting off our liquid cash on a holiday weekend, I would be forced to crawl back to him begging for grocery money.
He didn't know about the secret account.
Two years ago, when I started taking on freelance branding projects for local boutique businesses, I quietly opened a separate business account under my maiden name, depositing every dollar of my earnings into a credit union across town. It wasn't millions, but it was enough to sustain Emma and me comfortably for six months while the courts sorted out asset division.
I calmly closed the banking app, picked up my car keys, and looked at Emma. “Hey, sweet pea, how would you like to go get pancakes at that diner you love, and then we can pick out a brand new art set?”
Emma’s eyes lit up. “Really? Can I get chocolate chips?”
“As many as you want,” I smiled, feeling the armor around my heart grow stronger.
Thirty minutes later, as we sat in a sunlit booth at our favorite neighborhood diner sharing a massive stack of pancakes, the bell above the front door chimed. I glanced up, and my heart skipped a beat.
May you like
Standing near the cash register, looking completely out of place in his tailored suit and expensive wool coat, was David. He looked exhausted, his shirt collar slightly unbuttoned, scanning the room frantically. When his eyes landed on our booth, a triumphant smirk spread across his face. He thought he had tracked us down to deliver his economic ultimatum.
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