CHAPTER 11
Quinn
Iwant to throw a tantrum just like the toddler wailing behind me in this stuffy, outdated bank.
The queue is long, the air conditioning is broken and humming uselessly in the ceiling, and the only teller is typing slowly at her keyboard, one long, false nail at a time.
Like me, she’d clearly rather be anywhere else.
Despite spending most of my time taking care of Josh, I’ve never handled mortgages, bank meetings, or anything that required paperwork. He insisted he’d take care of it and at the time I thought it was partnership, but now it feels like control.
But it’s about time I stepped out of my comfort zone and took on bigger tasks. I know it’s not ideal timing. I’m technically between jobs, but I’ve got savings in our joint mortgage account, and I need a buffer. Something to keep me afloat while I build up my design business.
A sharp voice over the intercom barks out “Customer number twelve,” jolting me out of my thoughts.
I look up in alarm. Judging by the bank teller’s glare, her brows pinched, and her eyes narrowed, this isn’t the first time she’s called it.
My heart skips as I fumble to check my ticket, cursing myself inwardly when I see it matches the number she just droned out.
Approaching the counter, I glance at her name tag: Rebeka. Her scowl has deepened, and there’s a pulsing vein near her temple that looks like it might quit before she does. If she was irritated forty-five minutes ago, she seems one passive-aggressive sigh away from murder now.
“Sorry, Rebeka. How are you?” I say, forcing myself to concentrate on why I’m here instead of getting swallowed by the fluorescent-lit hellhole around me.
“Forms, please,” she replies, still tapping away, her false lashes flickering like tiny fans over sharp cheekbones, eyes glued to the screen.
“Here they are. I just had a few quick questions about my loan request.” I shuffle through my bag and hand her the binder.
Rebeka glances at my ID, compares it to the screen, purses her bubble-gum-pink lips, and then silently hands back my documents.
“Tim is ready for you in Room 2. Down the hallway to your right.”
Relief washes over me. Thank God “I-don’t-have-a-single-fuck” Rebeka isn’t the one holding my financial future.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, retreating to slip into Tim’s office and shutting the door.
“Hello, Quinn. I’m Tim, your financial advisor.
How are you today?” he says, adjusting his crooked glasses as he gestures to the chair beside the one I first move toward.
My cheeks flush as I awkwardly change course, the plastic creaking beneath me as I sit, suddenly hyperaware of how unprepared I must look.
“I’m good, how are you?” I say, gripping the folder to my chest like a lifeline. “I have all the requested documents,” I rush out, eager to hand them over before he can ask. My hands are slightly clammy as I pass the papers across.
“Thanks for these,” he says with a polite nod, his neatly combed-over greying hair catching the light as he turns toward his desk. “I’ll go through them in a moment, but first, tell me a little about why you want this loan.”
I groan internally, picking at the skin around my thumbnail. “I want a bit of extra money to kickstart my own business.”
“That’s a smart move.” He nods gingerly. “What kind of business are you starting?”
“Interior design,” I reply, eyeing the coffee stain on his yellowing shirt. “I used to work for a small company before they shut down. I decided to bet on myself, go out on my own.”
Okay, a white lie. I worked at Beverly Designs right after graduation before quitting. I’d let Josh’s offhand comments chip away at my confidence. Apparently, “picking out cushions isn’t a real job.”
Tim offers a small smile. “That sounds promising. Do you already have clients lined up?”
“A few. Nothing major yet, but there’s interest.” Another lie as I shift in my seat. “Honestly, it’s terrifying, but exciting.”
I wish I still had clients, but it’s been years. After I quit, I took the first job I could find to pay the notes, something I swore I’d only keep for six months. But six months turned into two years in that retail warehouse before I finally decided I’d had enough. And now here I am.
“That’s usually how you know it’s worth doing,” he says, turning to his outdated computer. He fumbles with his glasses, which have slipped down his nose. “Give me a moment to double-check your paperwork and bank records.”
He’s busy typing away, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s about me. Did I dress wrong? Have I messed something up already?
The silence is deafening. I can hear the clock ticking louder and louder and it makes me wish I’d brought someone for support.
But these days, I only really have Sophie, and she’s already dealing with a nightmare boss, a job she hates, and a chaotic dating life.
I didn’t want to dump more of my stress on her today.
Just as I’m about to attempt some awkward small talk, Tim finally looks up.
“Congratulations, Quinn, we’d love to offer you a loan. But do you have a copy of your bank details? They’re not showing in our system,” he says, frowning.
“I, um, only have the ones I submitted in my email. Why wouldn’t they be showing up?” My stomach drops.
“I’m not sure,” he says, offering a polite smile as he picks up the phone. “Let me check with a colleague, it’s probably just a system error.”
His tight-lipped nods and vague murmurs don’t inspire much confidence. I force my breathing to steady, gripping the armrests like that might anchor me.
“Sorry about the delay.” He sets the phone down. “Here it is. Just a digit mix-up. My mistake.”
“So… do you think the loan could be approved?” I ask, trying to sound calm.
“Yes, everything looks good,” he says, sorting through my paperwork. “We’ll just need to confirm your savings. Do you have a recent statement? Maybe from a different account?”
Why would— “They should be in that account. What does it say?”
“I think it’s best if I print the statement,” Tim says gently.
My stomach dips. It’s his account. Josh’s. The bank put both our names on it, but he’s the only one who ever had online access. Said it was easier that way. Said I didn’t need to worry.
We’d kept this joint account to pay the mortgage until we could sell. A year later and it’s still on the market. I shift in the seat, the cold vinyl sticking to the backs of my thighs, and grip the edge of the chair as Tim tears the printout from the tray and hands it over.
I blink. Then blink again. This can’t be right. But numbers don’t lie and neither do the words: Online betting transactions.
Thousands of dollars are flowing in and out.
The last withdrawal cleared the account.
My account. Except it wasn’t. Josh had been the only one with the password for a year.
Every time I asked to log in, he’d brush me off with a kiss or a joke about how numbers make me anxious.
Turns out, he didn’t want me to see what he was doing.
I stare at the endless transfers between online poker, roulette, and fucking horse racing.
He doesn’t even know anything about horse racing. How long has this been going on?
It explains so much: the nights he couldn’t cover dinner, the groceries I had to front, the last-minute alcohol runs I funded. I thought he was picking up extra shifts at the hardware warehouse. But in reality, he was busy gambling away every cent I’d saved.
“I had no idea,” I whisper. “How does this affect my loan? Is there anything I can do?”
Tim hesitates for a beat, then nods thoughtfully. “There is one other option. We can consider your assets. You bought a house about fourteen months ago?”
“Yeah—um, yes. It’s on the market. Does that help?”
“It does. As long as you can sell it for more than what’s owed,” he replies.
“I think I can do that,” I say, hopefully sounding more confident than I feel.
“You know, I went through something similar,” Tim continues, relaxing in his chair. “Messy divorce. My wife ran off with my son’s football coach and took everything.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say sincerely.
“It’s fine. I’m happier now. But I see a bit of myself in you. Overwhelmed, jobless, trying to start over. So here’s what I’ll do. I’ll approve half your loan now, in good faith. But you’ve got ninety days to sell the house.”
Of course, there’s a catch.
Josh had nine months to sell the house and couldn’t manage it. Now I’ve got three. I don’t even know if he actually listed it or if he was feeding me more lies, the way he always did when he didn’t want to deal with real consequences.
When I’m too stunned to answer, he keeps going. “My advice? Go for a quick auction. And maybe a few upgrades. Paint goes a long way. The current buyer’s market is in your favour.”
Okay, maybe I can do this. The house isn’t falling apart it’s just…
stubborn. There’s a leaky ceiling and wiring so unpredictable you can’t make toast and boil water at the same time.
And those offensively bright feature walls in every bedroom and hallway?
I keep telling myself they give it charm, but really, they’re just loud.
Like my shitty ex. I still don’t know how he talked me into buying it.
“Thanks so much, Tim, I really appreciate it,” I say, standing up as the vinyl chair releases its grip with a faint, embarrassing suction sound. I smooth down my skirt, pretending that didn’t just happen, and force a polite smile before making my way to the door.
“All the best, Quinn,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly, and for the first time all morning, the tension in my chest loosens a touch.
But the lightness is quickly replaced by dread when I realise what comes next.
I have to call Josh.
I’d rather give up caffeine, carbs, and the will to live than call him.
But first, I need the afternoon to breathe. Maybe a nap. Definitely a glass of wine. And the mental fortitude to face the man I’ve been avoiding like it was a full-time job because, in many ways, it was.
I head outside and slump into my car, sending out a silent prayer that I’ll have the strength to get through whatever this next chapter throws at me.