Restricted. I liked that word.
What Ethan never understood was that I had learned long ago not to leave myself exposed. I’d watched my mother lose everything to a charming man who vanished when the money ran out. So when Ethan casually suggested merging accounts or questioned why I needed independent legal advice, I quietly made preparations.
When he pushed me to sell the house, I didn’t simply sign away ownership. I had the hospital social worker connect me to my attorney, Marissa Greene, through a patient advocacy line so Ethan wouldn’t intercept the call. Marissa structured the sale so the funds would go directly into her escrow account—not into our joint checking account, and certainly not into Ethan’s hands.
The deposit alert he saw was real. The money existed.
But it wasn’t accessible.
Additional safeguards were placed: any transfer required my live confirmation on a recorded line, plus a one-time code sent to my phone. Ethan assumed my signature meant control. He never imagined the door was locked.
When I told him to check the account again, I knew what he’d find—nothing he could touch.
“Lily, they’re asking for you to authorize it!” he snapped during one frantic call. “You were dying! I had to protect myself!”
There it was.
Not protect me. Protect himself.
“You left divorce papers on my tray,” I reminded him quietly.
“I panicked.”
“No,” I said calmly. “You planned.”
Then I did something else he hadn’t anticipated: I forwarded his voicemails to my lawyer and to a relative who worked in financial crimes—not out of revenge, but documentation. Threats. Admissions. Intent.
Ethan thought he was orchestrating an exit.
