I pull up the transaction history. I scroll past the recent cancellations and deposit refunds—painful, but expected—and start looking at the withdrawals.
There.
October 14th. Two thousand dollars gone.
September 2nd. Three thousand gone.
August 20th. Four hundred.
I click the details. The transfers went to an account I don’t recognize, authorized by a user with admin privileges.
Myadmin privileges.
But I didn't make these transfers.
"Fucking Ryder.” It hits me then, the memory of the day when he offered to help with the accounting when I got overwhelmed. The realization hits me like a kick to the ribs.
This motherfucker.
Around two years ago, that’s when it started. I was drowning in work, and Ryder, thebest boyfriend ever, offered to take the "boring admin stuff" off my plate.Let me help you, babe. You’re so stressed.
He wasn't helping. He was fuckingstealing.
I dig deeper. The theft goes back months. It’s insidious. Small amounts, never enough to trigger an overdraft or a fraud alert, just enough to keep me struggling. Just enough to keep me stressing about rent, about groceries, about whether I could afford a new dress for his stupid bullshit events.
The final tally sits at the bottom of the spreadsheet. Forty-two thousand dollars.
He didn't just cheat on me. He was robbing me while I was sleeping in his bed. He kept me poor on purpose. He kept me desperate so I’d have to rely on him, so I’d feel grateful for every scrap of attention he threw my way.
Rage, cold and sharp, replaces the shock.
I grab my phone and dial.
"If you're calling to tell me you're legally changing your name to Mrs. Billionaire, I accept the invitation to the wedding," Harper says by way of greeting.
"I need you," I say, my voice shaking with fury. "Come to Gabriel’s. Bring your laptop."
"On my way."
Thirty minutes later, Harper is sitting next to me at the dining room table, her neon pink boot tapping against the floor as her knee shakes. She’s not looking at the architecture or the view or the pretty Christmas tree. She’s staring at my screen with a look that could melt the snow outside.
"Forty grand," she says flatly. "That little leech stole forty grand."
"It gets better," I say, opening my email sent folder. "Look at the archive."
I found it ten minutes ago. A hidden subfolder Ryder set up.
Harper leans in, reading the top email.
Regarding your inquiry: Ashby Events is currently restructuring due to the owner’s personal health crisis. We recommend taking your business elsewhere.
"He told them you were having a mental breakdown?" Harper asks, her voice rising an octave.
"And he told the Symphony Board I was in rehab," I say, pointing to the next one.
He was absolutely systematic about this. He spent the past two years ensuring that every time I got close to a big break, he cut the ladder out from under me. He isolated me, sabotaged me, and stole from me, all while telling me I was lucky to have him.
"I’m going to kill him," Harper says, pushing away from the desk. "I don't mean that metaphorically. I’m going to run him over with my car. Then back over his corpse just to make sure he’s dead."
