Chapter 2

The next morning, I drove to the bank downtown, the signed agreement tucked safely in my purse. My plan was simple, the first of many steps. I needed to open my own bank account, a space for my money that Mark couldn't touch or monitor. It was a small act of independence, but it felt monumental.

I sat in front of a young, eager-looking bank teller named Kevin. He smiled brightly as I explained what I needed.

"Absolutely, Ms. Miller. A new checking and savings account. We can get that set up for you right now. I just need two forms of ID and a proof of address."

I slid my driver's license and passport across the counter. He typed my information into his computer, his smile faltering slightly.

"Oh," he said, looking at his screen. "It looks like your address is linked to a joint account with Mr. Mark Davis. For security purposes, to set up a new individual account, we'll need Mr. Davis to come in and sign a consent form, or we can mail it to your home for his signature."

I felt a surge of frustration. Of course. Even here, his name was a barrier. Everything was tied to him, a web he had carefully constructed over the years.

"Is there any way around that?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even. "I'd prefer to handle this on my own."

Kevin looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Ms. Miller, it's bank policy. It's to protect both parties in a shared household. But hey, you're engaged to Mark Davis, the CEO of OmniTech, right? Everyone knows him. Getting his signature should be a piece of cake. A guy that successful must be supportive."

His well-meaning words felt like sandpaper on my raw nerves. People saw the public Mark, the charismatic tech genius, the generous philanthropist. They didn't see the man who checked my credit card statements every night, who told me which friends I was allowed to see, who called my art a "cute little hobby."

I left the bank empty-handed, the frustration simmering. That evening, Mark found me in the kitchen. He was holding a letter from the bank. The consent form.

"What's this, Sarah?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm. "Why are you trying to open a secret bank account? Are you hiding something from me? I thought we agreed to be transparent with each other about our finances."

It was a classic Mark move, twisting my attempt at independence into a betrayal. He was accusing me of the very secrecy and control that he practiced every single day. The hypocrisy was breathtaking.

"I'm not hiding anything, Mark," I said, turning from the sink to face him. I had anticipated this, planned for it. "My gallery from back home called. They want to feature a few of my old pieces in a local artists' showcase. The payment won't be much, just a small stipend. I thought it would be simpler to have it in a separate account, so it doesn't get mixed up with our household budget. It's just for my art."

I watched his face, saw the subtle shift in his expression. The mention of my art, which he considered a non-threatening hobby, and the idea of a "small stipend" soothed his ego. It fit his narrative of me being a dabbler, playing at being an artist. He couldn't conceive that it was a real step toward leaving him.

"Oh," he said, his posture relaxing. "A little show? That's nice. Why didn't you just say so?" He picked up a pen and signed the form with a flourish. "Don't spend it all in one place." He chuckled, as if he'd made a clever joke.

The next day, I didn't just open a new bank account. I packed a suitcase with my most essential clothes and my art supplies. I moved them into the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. I changed the sheets on the bed, making it my own. When Mark came home that night, I was reading in the guest room.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked, standing in the doorway. "The lighting is better for my eyes," I replied without looking up.

He lingered for a moment, a confused and slightly irritated expression on his face. He wasn't angry yet, just... thrown. He was a man who relied on patterns, on predictability. I was deliberately breaking the pattern.

"Alright," he said finally, "Don't stay up too late. You look tired."

He walked away, and I heard the door to our master bedroom close down the hall. I knew he was probably telling himself this was just a phase, some strange mood I was in. He would think he could fix it, manage it, the way he managed everything else. He had no idea that I wasn't just in a different room. I was already in a different world, one he could no longer enter.