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He looked at Ryan.
“Sir,” the officer said, his hand resting casually near his belt. “Is your name on the deed?”
“Is your name on the lease?”
“It’s a marriage!” Ryan cried.
“Sir,” the officer’s voice hardened. “According to these documents, this is commercial property owned by an LLC. You have no legal standing here. The owner has requested you vacate the premises. You have five minutes to gather your essentials.”
The collapse of a narcissist is a fascinating thing to watch. It doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in stages. First denial, then rage, then bargaining, and finally, a pathetic, weeping reality.
“Five minutes?” Ryan shrieked. “I have suits! I have electronics! My PlayStation is hooked up!”
“I packed a bag for you,” I said, pointing to the plastic garbage bag near the door. “Essentials only. You can contact my assistant to arrange a time to pick up the rest. With a police escort, of course.”
Karen grabbed the officer’s arm. “You can’t do this! I have a sewing room! My fabrics are in there!”
The officer gently removed her hand. “Ma’am, step back. Do not touch me.”
Ryan looked at me. The anger was gone, replaced by pure, desperate panic. He realized the audience was gone. The show was over.
“Honey,” he whined, using the pet name he hadn’t used in months. He took a step toward me, hands out, palms up. “Baby, please. Let’s talk about this. We can fix this. You’re stressed. I know I messed up with the desk. I’ll put it back! I’ll move Mom to a hotel!”
“It’s not about the desk, Ryan,” I said, my voice steady. “It’s about the $45,000 you siphoned from our joint savings to ‘invest’ in NFTs. It’s about the $12,000 credit card bill for dinners with your ‘clients’ who were actually your fraternity brothers. It’s about the fact that you look at me and you don’t see a wife—you see an ATM with a pulse.”
Ryan turned pale. “You… you checked the accounts?”
“I’m a forensic accountant, Ryan,” I whispered. “I trace money for a living. Did you really think you could hide it from me?”
He fell silent. The weight of his own stupidity seemed to crush him.
“Officer,” I said. “I’d like them removed now. They are trespassing.”
Ryan grabbed the garbage bag of clothes. He looked at the apartment—the panoramic view, the marble floors, the life he had stolen.
“Where are we supposed to go?” he asked, his voice cracking. “We have no money. You froze the cards.”
“Ask your mother,” I said coldly. “She seems to have a lot of opinions on how to run a household. I’m sure she has a plan.”
They were marched out into the hallway. The neighbors—Mrs. Higgins from 4B, the nosey investment banker from 4C—were all peeking out of their doors. Ryan Gable, the man who bragged about his “portfolio,” was being evicted in his gym shorts, clutching a trash bag.
I stood in the doorway and watched them get into the elevator.
As the doors began to close, Ryan looked at me. “I loved you,” he said. A final, desperate lie.
“No, Ryan,” I said. “You loved the lease.”
The doors shut.
I walked back inside. The silence was absolute. It wasn’t lonely. It was glorious.
But I wasn’t done.
I picked up my phone. One last loose end.
Cliffhanger:
My phone buzzed. A text from Ryan.
Okay, you win. We’re leaving. But I need the car keys. The spare set is in the drawer. Mom can’t walk to the subway. At least let us take the Audi.
I smiled. A true predator never knows when to stop hunting.
I typed back:
Check the garage. Spot #45.
I walked out onto the balcony, looking down forty stories to the street below. I couldn’t see the garage entrance, but I knew exactly what was happening.
Down in the concrete belly of the building, Ryan and Karen would be standing in Spot #45.
It would be empty.
I imagined the scene. Ryan shouting for Jose, the valet. Ryan demanding to know where his black Audi Q7 was.
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