Chapter 4

The next morning, the reality of my situation crashed down on me. My mother was gone, and the hospital was already talking about billing. The cost of her emergency surgery, the overnight stay, the morgue fees-it was a mountain of debt I had no way to climb. David's threat from the day before echoed in my ears. He wanted me to sell the small apartment that was in my name, the only real asset I had, left to me by my grandmother.

He called, his voice stripped of the fake sympathy from yesterday. It was cold, hard, and urgent.

"The gallery's insurance is going to be a nightmare. They're trying to blame you for negligence," he lied, his voice a low, urgent hum over the phone. "We need cash, Sarah. Now. To pay for the lawyers, to handle... your mother's arrangements. You need to sign the sale papers today."

He was pushing me, trying to use my grief and the financial pressure as a weapon to get what he wanted. He thought I was still the same naive woman who would do anything for him.

I took a deep breath, the sterile hospital air burning my lungs. I thought about the lie he was. The life he lived. And the money he had.

"No," I said.

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice sharp with disbelief.

"I said no," I repeated, a strange sense of power flowing through me. "I won't sign anything."

I could almost hear him grinding his teeth. "Don't be stupid, Sarah. You need this money. We need this money."

"I remember something," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "Two years ago. Your 'illness' took a bad turn. You needed a special treatment, one that wasn't covered by insurance. It cost eighty thousand dollars. We didn't have it."

I could hear his breathing catch. He remembered it too.

"I begged the bank for a loan," I continued, my voice trembling slightly with the memory. "They refused. So I went to a loan shark. I borrowed the eighty thousand dollars from a man who promised to break my legs if I missed a single payment. I worked four jobs for a year to pay it back, David. I would come home and my hands would be shaking so badly I couldn't hold a paintbrush. All for you. For your 'treatment'."

The line was silent. He had no response. The memory of my sacrifice, now cast in the light of his deceit, was a damning indictment.

"So," I said, my voice hardening into steel. "You want me to sell my grandmother's apartment? Fine. But not for us. For me. You will transfer five hundred thousand dollars into my personal bank account. Today. Once the money is there, I'll sign the papers."

He exploded. "Are you insane? Where am I supposed to get half a million dollars? I'm a sick musician, remember?"

The bitter irony of his words made me want to laugh. "I don't care where you get it, David. Sell a few of your 'innovations.' Ask your girlfriend Emily. I'm sure her family has deep pockets. You have until five p.m. today. Otherwise, the recording from the gallery camera goes straight to the district attorney."

I wasn't just calling his bluff. I was setting a trap. He thought I was making an emotional, irrational demand. He didn't realize I was testing him, forcing him to reveal his hand.

The real reason for the money wasn't just revenge. It was for my mother. She had a younger sister, my aunt, who was battling cancer. Her own medical bills were crippling her family. My mother's last wish, something she had told me just last week, was to be able to help her sister. This money, David's blood money, would be my way of honoring that wish. It would be the only good thing to come out of this entire nightmare.

"This is blackmail, Sarah," he hissed.

"No," I replied calmly. "It's restitution. Five p.m., David."

I hung up the phone.

For hours, I heard nothing. I lay in the hospital bed, the physical pain from the assault a dull throb compared to the gaping wound in my soul. I stared at the ceiling, my decision about the baby a hard, cold stone in my heart. This was the first step in taking my life back.

At 4:45 p.m., my phone buzzed. It was a text alert from my bank.

Deposit Confirmation: $500,000.00.

He did it. He had access to that kind of money all along. He could have paid for the best doctors for his fake illness, bought us a beautiful home, funded my art career. He could have given us a wonderful life. But he chose to lie, to humiliate me, to watch me slave away for his amusement.

The confirmation was the final, brutal proof of his betrayal.

A notary, sent by David's lawyers, arrived a few minutes later with the sale documents. I signed them without reading them, my hand steady. As the notary left, the adrenaline that had been coursing through me vanished, leaving a profound, bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. The stress of the last 24 hours, the physical trauma, the emotional devastation-it all came crashing down on me at once.

My vision blurred. The room started to spin. I reached for the call button, but my arm felt impossibly heavy. The world faded to black, and I collapsed back onto the pillows, unconscious.