6. Investment
Chapter six
Investment
The ultrasound gel was freezing against my skin.
I lay flat on the crinkling paper of the examination table, staring up at the fluorescent lights. Dr. Morales moved the plastic wand across my swollen stomach in deliberate sweeps. The machine beside the bed hummed, emitting the rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of my baby’s heartbeat.
Marcus sat in the plastic guest chair beside the table, leaning forward with his eyes fixed intently on the black-and-white monitor. He wore his charcoal suit, his tie loosened just enough to look relaxed.
He reached out and wrapped his large hand over mine.
“Strong heartbeat,” Marcus said. He rubbed his thumb across my knuckles. “That’s my kid.”
I looked down at our joined hands. A few days ago, those exact same hands were gripping the torn lace of my wedding dress. Now, he was holding my hand in a brightly lit doctor’s office, playing the role of the devoted father.
Dr. Morales smiled, tapping a few keys on the console to freeze a frame of the ultrasound. “One hundred and forty-five beats per minute. You’ve got a very healthy little girl in there, Elena.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“How is the growth curve looking?” Marcus asked, leaning closer to the screen. “The app I have says the baby should be around a pound and a half by week twenty-four. Are we hitting the benchmarks?”
Dr. Morales turned away from the monitor, clearly charmed by the question.
“The measurements are spot on, Marcus,” she said, her tone softening with unmistakable approval. “I have to be honest, I rarely see husbands at the routine second-trimester checks, let alone husbands tracking the weekly growth metrics.”
“I like to know the data.” Marcus smiled, his charisma effortlessly filling the small room. He gave my hand another squeeze. “I have to protect my best investments.”
Dr. Morales laughed at the joke, completely won over.
“Well, everything looks perfect,” Dr. Morales said, grabbing a handful of paper towels and wiping the blue gel off my stomach.
“Amniotic fluid is normal, blood pressure is excellent, and all the vitals are right where we want them. Keep doing exactly what you’re doing, Elena.
You can get dressed, and I’ll see you at the front desk for checkout. ”
The doctor walked out, pulling the door shut behind her.
I sat up on the edge of the examination table. Marcus helped me put my shoes back on. He was still putting on the perfect facade of a doting husband. I couldn’t help but wonder… How could someone be so vicious?
We walked out into the reception area together. Brenda, the front desk receptionist, smiled brightly as we approached the counter.
“All set, Mrs. Russell,” Brenda said, typing rapidly on her keyboard. “Dr. Morales wants to see you back in four weeks. I just need to collect the copay for today’s visit. It’ll be seventy-five dollars.”
I stood quietly beside him as Marcus pulled a sleek credit card from his pocket.
“I’ve got it,” Marcus said, handing the card to Brenda. “Can I get an itemized receipt for that? I need to log the diagnostic codes for the Health Savings Account.”
“Of course,” Brenda said, running the card through the terminal. She printed the receipt, stapled it to a breakdown of the visit, and handed it across the counter.
Marcus didn’t put the receipt in his pocket. He stood right there at the reception desk, opened his leather briefcase, and pulled out his iPad.
“Give me one second, El,” Marcus murmured, his eyes scanning the printed numbers. “I just want to reconcile this while it’s fresh.”
I stood silently beside him, watching his fingers move across the glass screen.
He logged into his primary financial dashboard—a custom software interface that tracked every single account, investment, and expenditure attached to our names.
He typed the seventy-five-dollar charge into the medical column.
Then, he paused. Tapping the screen, he pulled up the ledger for the joint checking account.
“Hey,” Marcus said. His voice was light and entirely casual. He didn’t look up from the iPad. “Did you go to the pharmacy yesterday afternoon?”
My hand tightened around the strap of my purse. “Yes. I picked up the prenatal vitamins.”
“Right. The vitamins are usually thirty-five dollars.” Marcus tapped his index finger against the edge of the screen. “The charge cleared for forty-four dollars and fifty cents. Did you grab something else?”
I looked at the side of his face. He managed multimillion-dollar portfolios for a global bank. And he was standing in the middle of a waiting room, making me justify nine dollars and fifty cents at a local drugstore.
“I bought a bottle of water,” I said, keeping my voice completely flat. “And some Tylenol.”
“Okay.” Marcus clicked a button on the screen, clearing the flag on his ledger.
“Just checking. You know how sensitive the bank’s fraud algorithms are.
I have the alerts set to flag any deviations from our normal spending patterns.
If I don’t recognize a charge, I like to clear it up before they put an automatic hold on the card. ”
“Of course.”
“A guy at the firm just went through a nightmare with his accounts,” Marcus added, sliding the iPad back into his briefcase and snapping the gold clasps shut.
“Someone skimmed his wife’s debit card. Started with an eight-dollar test charge at a gas station, and three days later they drained fifteen grand.
You have to watch the pennies, El. It’s the only way to protect the board. ”
“It makes sense,” I agreed.
It was the same lecture he gave me every time I deviated from the invisible parameters he had built around my life.
Before Thursday, I had always nodded along, genuinely believing he was just being a responsible provider.
I thought his obsession with our finances was his way of taking care of us.
But it was just another part of the trap he’d built around me.
He rested his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the glass doors of the clinic and out into the bright afternoon sun.
We walked to his BMW in the parking lot. He opened the passenger door for me, waiting until I was settled before shutting it. “There we go,” he murmured as he slid back into the driver’s seat. “Time to go home.”
The drive back to the suburbs was uneventful.
Marcus took a call from a junior partner on the car’s Bluetooth, effortlessly shifting from the devoted, awestruck father to a ruthless executive barking orders about risk assessments.
I stared out the window, watching the concrete sprawl of the city turn into manicured, green subdivisions.
He pulled into our driveway, shifting the car into park but leaving the engine running.
“I’ve got to head back to the office,” Marcus said, ending his call. He leaned over the center console and kissed my cheek. “Tell your mother I said hello. I’ll see you tonight.”
“All right, honey,” I said. “Have a good afternoon.”
I got out of the car and stood on the edge of the driveway, watching him back out and merge onto the street. How could I not see it before? How could I not see what you are?
Shaking myself, I walked up the paved walkway and unlocked the front door. The house smelled like lemon polish and Sylvia’s floral perfume. The television was running in the living room, the faint, upbeat voices of a daytime talk show echoing down the hall.
I didn’t go into the living room. I walked straight upstairs to the master bathroom and shut the door.
Marcus’s words echoed through my mind, sharp and clear. I have the alerts set to flag any deviations.
The system I’d installed with Hayes was a beginning. I needed a divorce lawyer. But lawyers required a retainer. Upfront money.
If I walked into a law firm downtown and swiped the joint debit card for a five-thousand-dollar charge, his phone would vibrate in his pocket before the receptionist even handed me the receipt. The budgeting software he had just shown me on his iPad would flag the unusual charge instantly.
Marcus would see the name of the law firm.
He would lock the household checking account, pull the funds into his private trust, and call his own legal team.
By the time I walked out of the lawyer’s office, I wouldn’t have a single dollar to my name.
I wouldn’t be able to buy a gallon of gas or a hotel room.
I would be completely at his mercy, and he would have all the time in the world to spin the narrative to our families.
I couldn’t use the banks. I couldn’t write a check. I couldn’t use the credit cards.
I needed cash. Untraceable, liquid cash.
Hayes probably would have helped me if I had asked, but something inside me resisted going to him for money. And I knew exactly how I was going to get it.
I headed toward my vanity and rummaged through my jewelry box.
Inside, I found a three-carat diamond pendant.
Marcus had bought it for me on our third anniversary.
He had presented the velvet box at a crowded French restaurant, speaking loudly enough for the couple at the next table to hear him apologize for working so many late nights.
I had genuinely believed it was a profound gesture of guilt and devotion.
It wasn’t a gift. It was a prop, bought to visually communicate his success. It was a tangible piece of equity he made me wear, a prop so his partners could see exactly how well he took care of his compliant wife.
I wrapped my fingers around the diamond. The precision-cut facets of the stone dug sharply into my palm. It didn’t matter why he bought it, or whose bed he had been in at the time. It was a rock, and it belonged to me. And now, it’d buy my freedom.
The city skyline loomed ahead through the dirty, smudged window of the yellow cab.