Chapter 3 - The Sinking Ship
By the end of the second week, the illusion of the Vance family’s self-sufficiency had completely dissolved.
Without my income quietly plugging every financial leak, the household budget didn't just strain—it imploded. Eric discovered, much to his horror, that a credit score of 580 doesn't get you a commercial loan when you don't have a wealthy wife acting as a co-signer. His truck insurance lapsed. The electric company sent a bright red final notice regarding the overdue utility balance of twelve hundred dollars. And Mark’s phone service was cut off after his auto-pay failed.
I learned all of this not because I was spying, but because Eric finally cracked under the pressure and showed up in person.
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. I was working from a shared executive office space downtown when the receptionist buzzed my desk.
“Claire, there’s a gentleman downstairs insisting on seeing you,” she said, sounding hesitant. “He says he’s your husband. He’s... well, he’s causing a bit of a scene.”
I sighed, packed my tablet into my leather portfolio, and walked down the glass-enclosed staircase to the lobby.
Eric looked terrible. The sharp, confident contractor facade was completely gone. His hair was unwashed, his flannel shirt was wrinkled, and there were dark, purple shadows bruised beneath his eyes. When he saw me step out of the elevator, his face lit up with a mixture of desperate relief and righteous anger.
“Claire!” he gasped, hurrying across the polished marble floor. Security took half a step forward, but I waved them back. “What in God’s name are you doing? This has gone on long enough. Mom is beside herself, Mark is losing his mind because his Wi-Fi is down, and I had to borrow fifty bucks from a guy at the hardware store just to buy groceries!”
I stood ten feet away from him, arms crossed, looking at him the way an entomologist looks at a particularly uninteresting specimen under a microscope.
“Where’s Bruno?” I asked mildly.
Eric blinked, thrown off rhythm. “What? Bruno? What does the dog have to do with this? Claire, my business is tanking! The bank called about the truck lease—they’re going to repossess it tomorrow! And the mortgage... babe, the mortgage payment bounced. The bank sent a warning letter about foreclosure.”
“Good,” I said.
Eric stared at me, his mouth half-open. “Good? What do you mean, good? That’s our house!”
“That’s my house,” I corrected him softly. “Bought with my grandfather’s money. Maintained with my sweat. And right now, since you can't afford the mortgage payment without my ghost supporting your lifestyle, it’s probably going into default. Which is fine. My lawyer is already handling the transfer of the mortgage servicing to a separate escrow account that doesn't involve your name.”
Eric’s face flushed a deep, mottled crimson. The charm that had hooked me seven years ago flickered and died, revealing the small, petulant boy underneath.
“You’re doing this over a laptop?” he yelled, several people in the lobby turning to look. “Over a stupid computer and a little dog mess? You’re tearing our marriage apart over dog poop?”
“No, Eric,” I said, stepping closer so that only he could hear my words. “I’m ending our marriage because for seven years, you treated me like an unpaid maid with a high-paying side hustle. You watched your brother smash my professional equipment while your mother cheered, and you told me I deserved it because family comes first. Well, your family is here. Go home to them. See how well they feed you when there’s no money left to steal.”
“I didn't steal anything!” he stammered, though his voice lacked conviction. “We’re married! What’s mine is yours and what’s yours is—”
May you like
“—is mine,” I interrupted coldly. “And it’s walking away.”
I turned my back on him, walked back to the elevator, and pressed the button for the third floor. As the doors slid shut, I heard him shouting my name across the lobby, a pathetic sound echoing off the marble.
