Chapter 3: The Audit
I woke up in a quiet recovery room.
The heavy, dull ache of the surgical incision throbbed in my lower abdomen, but my mind was startlingly clear. I turned my head.
Liam was sitting in the vinyl visitor's chair by the window. He was scrolling through his phone, a cup of coffee resting on the windowsill. When he heard the rustle of my sheets, he quickly pocketed the phone and manufactured a look of deep, loving relief.
"Charlotte," he breathed, standing up and walking over to the bed. "Thank god. You've been out for ten hours. The doctor said the surgery went perfectly."
I stared at him. I didn't blink. I just looked at the man I had slept next to for four years.
"Where is my son?" I asked, my voice dry and raspy.
"He's in the NICU," Liam said quickly, reaching out to stroke my hair. I turned my head away before he could touch me. "He's small, Char, but he's doing great. The nurses said we can go see him in a few hours."
Liam let out a heavy, dramatic sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "God, you terrified me. You really need to be more careful. When you twisted away from me and slipped on that wet patio... my heart stopped."
The gaslighting was so effortless, so practiced, that it actually made me sick to my stomach.
"Where is the envelope, Liam?" I asked.
Liam's face tightened with immediate annoyance. "Are you seriously bringing this up right now? You just had major surgery."
"Where is it?" I repeated, my tone devoid of any emotion.
"It's gone, Charlotte," Liam snapped, dropping the concerned husband act. "My mother deposited it into her bank account three hours ago. The wire transfer to her mortgage lender has already cleared. Her condo is saved."
He leaned over the bed, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "We are a family. Families help each other. You have excellent health insurance through your firm, and your trust fund generates more than enough to cover whatever the hospital bills us for this little premature detour. You were just being selfish, and look what happened. The stress made you clumsy."
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. The ice in my veins had completely solidified.
"Hand me my phone," I said.
"Charlotte—"
"Hand me my phone, Liam, or I will press the call button and tell the nurses my husband is preventing me from contacting my family."
He glared at me, his jaw clenching, but he pulled my phone from his pocket and tossed it onto my blanket.
"You're being hysterical," he muttered. "I'm going to the cafeteria. Try to calm down before we see the baby."
He walked out of the room, shutting the heavy wooden door behind him.
I picked up the phone. I didn't call my friends to cry. I didn't call my firm to arrange maternity leave. I opened my contacts and dialed a number I rarely used.
"Harrison, Vance & Associates," a polished voice answered. "This is Arthur Harrison speaking."
"Arthur," I said, ignoring the pain in my stomach. "This is Charlotte."
"Charlotte? My god, I wasn't expecting to hear from you for another two months. Is everything alright?"
"I had the baby early," I said. "He is in the NICU. But that is not why I am calling."
I took a deep breath.
"I need you to freeze all joint accounts connected to my name immediately. Revoke Liam's financial proxy. And Arthur? I need you to pull the exact wire transfer authorization form Liam used to move the twenty-three thousand dollars out of the protected medical trust."
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