Chapter 1 - The Shrill of Desperation
The metal drill bit shrieked,
grinding against the reinforced steel core of my front door,
sending a vibration through the walls of my penthouse that felt like a physical assault.
I stood in the center of my darkened foyer,
clutching my phone with white-knuckled intensity,
watching the live feed of the man I had once promised to love until death.
Ronald looked frantic,
his eyes darting down the hallway of the exclusive building,
hoping the neighbors wouldn't emerge to witness his descent into criminality.
Beside him,
Priscilla stood like a statuesque vulture,
adjusting the collar of her cream-colored coat as if she were attending a high-society brunch rather than a breaking and entering.
“Faster,”
she urged the locksmith,
her voice carrying through the door’s speaker with a chilling lack of remorse.
“She’s probably flushed the jewelry down the toilet by now,
or she’s hiding the offshore account ledgers.”
I felt a cold,
sharp laugh bubble up in my chest,
but I refused to let it out.
They really had no idea who they were dealing with,
even after five years of living under the same roof.
Ronald believed he was the architect of our lifestyle,
the brilliant consultant who allowed his wife to "play" at being a career woman.
He thought my income was a steady,
modest stream of six figures,
enough to pay for the mortgage and his mother’s insatiable appetite for the finer things.
He didn't know that the penthouse was just the tip of an iceberg that stretched deep into the dark waters of the global market.
I tapped the intercom button,
my voice steady and devoid of the panic they were so clearly hoping for.
“Ronald,”
I said,
the sound of my voice making the locksmith jump and pull the drill back.
“You have exactly ten seconds to tell your hired help to pack his tools before I activate the silent alarm connected to the Miami-Dade police department.”
Ronald leaned into the door,
his face inches from the camera lens.
“Lexi,
open this door right now!”
he shouted,
his composure finally cracking.
“You had no right to cancel my mother’s card!
That was an agreement!
You’re mentally unstable,
and we’re here to make sure you haven’t destroyed marital property!”
“Marital property?”
I repeated,
my voice dripping with a sarcasm that was years in the making.
“The judge signed the decree yesterday,
Ronald.
There is no more 'marital.'
There is only 'mine' and 'yours,'
and you are currently standing on the 'mine' side of the line.”
Priscilla pushed him aside,
her face twisted in a mask of indignation.
“Lexi,
don't be a fool!
I need that necklace for the gala tonight!
It was a charity auction,
and you’ve made us look like paupers!”
“You are paupers,
Priscilla,”
I replied,
the truth finally hanging in the air like a heavy fog.
“You just haven't looked at your son's bank balance lately.”
The locksmith looked between the two of them,
his face pale as he realized he was being used in a domestic dispute rather than a welfare check.
“Hey,
man,”
the locksmith stammered,
“you said she was your wife and she was locked in.”
“She is my wife!”
Ronald lied,
his voice rising in a desperate pitch.
“The paperwork is just a formality!
Keep drilling!”
I didn't wait for the tenth second.
May you like
I swiped my thumb across the screen,
activating the secondary security protocol I had installed three years ago.
