Bankrupting My Husband’s Fake Perfect Family Chapter 05

Bankrupting My Husband’s Fake Perfect Family Chapter 05: Erasure of the Mother

“Wife, why is my card declining?” Julian demanded through the screen.

“Stop it, Julian,” the woman’s voice whined again in the background.

I kept my expression cold and unreadable. “System maintenance.”

“Maintenance at noon on a Monday?” Julian scoffed. “What kind of bank does that?”

“The kind that sent an alert on Friday. Did you check your email?”

“I don’t read bank emails. You handle the administrative crap.”

“I’ll call the branch manager,” I offered. “Try the card again in two hours.”

“Make it one. We have lunch reservations at Le Petit.”

“Use cash,” I suggested.

“I don’t carry enough cash to cover a Michelin-star lunch, Clara.”

“Then wash the dishes,” I said.

I ended the call before he could respond.

I drove straight to the Oak Creek house. The moving truck ramp rested on the driveway. Two men carried my heavy oak dresser down the slanted metal.

“Is that the last of it?” I asked the foreman.

“Just the kitchen table left, ma’am,” the burly man replied. “Should we load it?”

“Leave the table. Take the chairs.”

He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Just the chairs? You sure?”

“I’m positive. And the curtains in the master bedroom. Rip them down.”

“They’re bolted to the wall.”

“Then use a crowbar,” I instructed. “I want empty windows.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Did you pack the microwave?” I asked.

“Boxed and loaded.”

“Good. Leave the trash cans.”

“We usually take the trash cans, ma’am.”

“Leave them,” I ordered. “He’ll need somewhere to put his garbage.”

I walked inside. My shoes slapped against the bare hardwood. The living room echoed. The movers had stripped the space completely. I walked into the kitchen and yanked the refrigerator cord from the wall socket. The low hum died instantly.

In the hallway, one final item remained. A large silver picture frame hung at eye level.

Julian, Liam, Mia, and me. We wore matching white sweaters on a beach in Florida. A perfect, manufactured lie.

I grabbed the silver edge and pulled.

The frame came away, leaving a jagged, ugly hole in the drywall. Dust fluttered to the floor.

I didn’t pack the frame. I carried it to the small paper shredder I had plugged into a bathroom outlet.

I cracked the glass against the porcelain sink. Shards shattered everywhere.

I pulled the glossy photo free.

I fed the corner of the picture into the machine. The blades caught the thick paper.

The motor roared.

First went Julian’s smiling face. Then Liam’s. Then Mia’s.

A strange, bubbling sensation rose in my chest. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream.

I hummed a cheerful, upbeat pop tune.

The machine chewed up fifteen years of motherhood and spit it into a plastic bin as tiny, meaningless strips.

I returned to the empty living room.

I carried a manila folder and a heavy steel hammer.

I walked to the exact center of the room. The floorboards felt cold beneath my knees.

I opened the folder. First, I laid out the divorce settlement. My signature sat perfectly on the bottom line.

“Sign on the dotted line,” I whispered to the empty room.

Next, I placed the printed offshore bank ledgers. The proof of his stolen corporate funds.

Finally, I placed a single sheet of white paper on top.

I uncapped a thick black marker. The sharp scent of ink hit my nose.

*Pay the rest of the Porsche yourself.*

I pulled a rusty, bent nail from my pocket. I had found it in the garage dirt.

I positioned the sharp point directly through the center of my handwritten note.

I swung the hammer high.

*Bang.*

The metal drove through the paper.

*Bang.*

It pierced the oak floorboards.

*Bang.*

The nail head pinned the documents flat against the wood. They weren’t going anywhere.

I stood up. I tossed the hammer into the corner of the room. It clattered against the baseboards.

I walked out the front door. The moving truck had already vanished down the street.

I pulled the heavy front door shut. The deadbolt engaged with a loud clunk.

I held my house key up. The brass caught the afternoon sunlight.

“Goodbye,” I said.

I lifted the mail slot and dropped the metal key inside. It hit the entryway floor with a sharp ping.

I turned my back on the house. I walked down the driveway. I didn’t look over my shoulder once.

A sleek black Maybach idled at the end of the street. Its tinted windows hid the interior.

I approached the passenger side and yanked the door open. The scent of expensive leather and rich espresso rushed over me.

I slid into the seat and slammed the door.

Sebastian sat behind the steering wheel. He wore a dark charcoal suit, his tie loosened just enough to show the strong line of his throat.

“Is it done?” he asked. His voice filled the quiet cabin.

“Everything is empty,” I replied. “Even the fridge is unplugged.”

“Did you leave the documents?”

“Nailed to the floorboards. Literally.”

Sebastian chuckled. “A rusty nail, I hope.”

“Found it in the garage.”

Sebastian reached into the center console. He retrieved a sleek silver tablet and held it out to me.

“Take a look.”

I accepted the device. The screen displayed a high-definition video feed.

“Is this the living room?” I asked, staring at the familiar angle.

“A hidden camera,” Sebastian confirmed. “Tucked inside the smoke detector. I had a technician install it yesterday while Julian was packing the SUV.”

On the screen, the room looked vast and hollow. The pile of nailed papers sat plainly in the center.

“You enjoy the theatrics,” Sebastian noted, watching my face.

“I want to see his expression when he realizes he has absolutely nothing left.”

“You won’t have to wait long.”

Sebastian tapped a button on the dashboard. The Maybach’s engine purred to life, but he didn’t shift into drive.

He pointed a long finger at the tablet screen.

A new notification flashed across the top of the video feed. *Front Door Motion Detected.*

“He’s early,” I murmured.

“He’s broke,” Sebastian corrected. “The restaurant probably threatened to call the police when his backup cards declined.”

Through the tinted windshield, I saw a familiar black SUV turn the corner.

Julian’s car sped down the street. He didn’t park on the curb. He swerved aggressively into the driveway, slamming on the brakes.

The driver’s side door flew open.

Julian stormed out, his face flushed a furious, vibrant red. He marched straight toward the front porch.

“Showtime,” Sebastian whispered.