Chapter 1: The Transaction

The cappuccino in front of me had gone cold, the foam collapsing into a sad, beige sludge. I stared at it, waiting. I had been waiting for fifteen minutes at The Pierre, one of Manhattan’s most ostentatious hotels, for a woman I had never met but knew intimately through the scent of her perfume on my husband’s shirts.

“Elena?”

I looked up. Standing there was Tiffany. She was younger than I expected, perhaps twenty-four to my thirty-two. She was dressed in head-to-toe Chanel, glowing with the kind of arrogance that only comes from inherited wealth. She was beautiful, in a polished, expensive way.

“You must be Tiffany,” I said, my voice steady. “Sit down.”

She sat, placing a crocodile-skin Birkin bag on the table as if it were a weapon. She didn’t order coffee. She just looked at me with a mixture of pity and disdain.

“I won’t waste your time, Elena,” Tiffany began, flipping her hair. “I know you know about us. Richard told me you’re… difficult. That you won’t let him go because of the money.”

I almost laughed. Richard, my husband of five years, had told her I was in it for the money? That was rich.

“Is that what he said?” I asked, leaning back.

“He loves me,” Tiffany declared, her eyes shining with a naive conviction. “He feels trapped with you. He says you’re cold. He says the marriage has been dead for years. He wants to start a family with me.”

“Then why hasn’t he filed for divorce?” I asked calmly.

“Because he doesn’t want to hurt you financially,” she lied. Or rather, she repeated the lie Richard had fed her. “He says you’d be destitute without him.”

She reached into her bag.

“But I want him now. I don’t want to wait for a long, messy court battle. My father taught me that every problem has a price tag.”

She pulled out a sleek, matte-black metal card. It was a Centurion card, but not just any card. It was attached to a pre-loaded trust account document.

She slid it across the table.

“There is five million dollars in that account,” Tiffany whispered, her voice trembling with the thrill of the illicit deal. “Access codes are in the envelope. It’s untraceable. My father’s money, not Richard’s.”

I looked at the card.

Five. Million. Dollars.

It was enough to disappear. Enough to start over. Enough to buy an island, or at least a very nice villa in Tuscany.

“And the condition?” I asked.

“You take this. You sign the divorce papers—I brought them, my lawyer drafted them—and you disappear. Tonight. You leave the penthouse. You leave Richard. You never speak to him again. You give him to me.”

I looked at Tiffany. I saw the desperation in her eyes. She thought she was buying a prize. She thought she was winning the lottery.

She didn’t know she was buying a ticket to the Titanic after it had already hit the iceberg.

I reached out. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t feign outrage.

I picked up the card.

“Done,” I said.

Tiffany blinked, stunned. “What?”

“I said done,” I repeated. I took the pen she offered and signed the divorce papers without even reading the fine print. I didn’t care about alimony. I didn’t care about the assets.

“You… you’re not going to fight for him?” she asked, looking almost disappointed that I wasn’t weeping.

“Tiffany,” I said, tucking the card and the access codes into my purse. “You offered me five million dollars for a husband who forgets my birthday and snores. I’m a businesswoman. I know a good deal when I see one.”

I stood up.

“He’s all yours. The penthouse keys are under the mat. I’ll be gone in an hour.”

“Wait,” Tiffany said, confusion clouding her victory. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I smiled. It was the first genuine smile I had worn in months. “Congratulations, Tiffany. You won.”

I walked out of the hotel. I didn’t look back. I checked the balance on my phone as I walked to my car. Five million. Confirmed.

I drove straight to the bank, transferred the funds to an offshore account in the Caymans, and then drove home to pack.

Chapter 2: The Departure

The penthouse on the Upper East Side was silent. It was a mausoleum of white marble and modern art—Richard’s taste, not mine.

I didn’t pack clothes. I packed my passport, my jewelry (the pieces I had bought myself), and my hard drives.

I went into Richard’s home office. I opened the wall safe. I knew the combination because I was the one who set it; Richard was too lazy to remember numbers.

Inside wasn’t money. It was debt.

Stacks of letters from the IRS. Final notices from banks. And the most damning evidence of all: the ledger.

Richard wasn’t a genius investor. He was a fraud. He had been running a Ponzi scheme for three years. He was hemorrhaging money. The penthouse was mortgaged to the hilt. The cars were leased. He was robbing Peter to pay Paul, and Paul was getting impatient.

I had found out two months ago. I had been quietly consulting a forensic accountant and a divorce lawyer, planning my exit before the FBI knocked on the door. I was terrified I would be implicated.

But now? Now I was divorced. Now I had five million dollars of clean money from Tiffany’s daddy.

I took the ledger. I placed it in the center of Richard’s mahogany desk.

Then, I sat down and wrote a letter. Not to Richard. To Tiffany.

I put the letter in a cream envelope and wrote For the New Mrs. Sterling on the front. I left it on the kitchen counter next to the keys.

I checked my watch. 4:00 PM.

Richard would be home at 6:00 PM. Tiffany was planning to surprise him there tonight.

I grabbed my suitcase. I took one last look at the view of Central Park—a view that cost $50,000 a month in maintenance fees I no longer had to pay.

“Good luck, honey,” I whispered to the empty room.

I took the elevator down to the garage, got into my car, and drove toward JFK Airport. I had a flight to Zurich at 8:00 PM.

Chapter 3: The Arrival

7:00 PM.

I was in the First Class lounge, sipping champagne. My phone was off, the SIM card destroyed. I had a new phone with a new number.

But I had kept the remote access to the penthouse security cameras active on my tablet. Just for tonight. I needed to see the closing act.

I opened the app. The feed from the living room camera loaded.

The door opened.

Tiffany walked in. She was beaming. She had luggage with her. She was moving in. She looked around the apartment like she owned it. Which, I suppose, she thought she did.

She poured herself a drink. She sat on the sofa, waiting.

Ten minutes later, Richard arrived.

He looked terrible. He was sweating, his tie loosened, his face grey. He had probably spent the day dodging investors.

When he saw Tiffany, he froze.

“Tiffany?” he asked, confused. “What are you doing here? Where is Elena?”

“She’s gone, baby,” Tiffany squealed, running to hug him. “I bought her out! I gave her five million dollars, and she signed the papers! We’re free! She left the keys!”

Richard pushed her away. He looked horrified.

“You… you gave her five million dollars?” Richard’s voice cracked.

“Yes! My trust fund! It’s an investment in us!”

Richard collapsed onto the sofa. He put his head in his hands.

“You idiot,” he whispered.

“What?” Tiffany’s smile faltered. “Richard, aren’t you happy? We can get married!”

“You gave her five million dollars?” Richard roared, standing up. “I needed that money, Tiffany! I needed it in my account!”

“What do you mean?”

“The margin call!” Richard shouted. “I have a margin call tomorrow morning! Five million would have covered it! If she has it… if she’s gone…”

He began to pace frantically.

“She knew,” Richard muttered. “She knew the ship was sinking, and she took the only life raft.”

Tiffany looked confused and scared. “Richard, you’re scaring me. You’re a billionaire. What margin call?”

Richard laughed. It was a manic, terrifying sound. “I’m not a billionaire, Tiff. I’m broke. I’m worse than broke. I’m twenty million in the hole.”

Tiffany gasped. “But… the cars… the house…”

“Leased! Mortgaged! All of it!”

“But… my five million…” Tiffany whispered, tears starting to form. “That was all I had. My father said if I touched the trust, I was cut off.”

“Then you’re broke too,” Richard sneered. “Congratulations. You bought a bankrupt man.”

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Not a polite ring. A heavy, authoritative pounding.

Richard went pale. He looked at the security monitor.

“It’s the FBI,” he whispered.

Chapter 4: The Letter

I watched on my tablet as Richard scrambled to the window, looking for a fire escape that didn’t exist.

The pounding continued. “FBI! OPEN UP!”

Tiffany was sobbing in the middle of the living room. She saw the envelope on the counter. The one I had left.

She picked it up with trembling hands. She tore it open.

I zoomed in on the camera feed. I knew exactly what she was reading.

Dear Tiffany,

I didn’t sell you my husband. I sold you my liability.

Richard is currently under investigation by the SEC and the FBI for securities fraud. The penthouse is about to be seized. The accounts are frozen (except the one you just filled, which is now mine).

You see, as his wife, I was a potential accomplice. But as his ex-wife who left before the indictment unsealed? I’m just a victim who got a lucky settlement.

By the way, he cheats on you too. Check his second phone. The one he keeps taped under the desk in his office. Her name is Jessica. She’s a yoga instructor.

P.S. The maintenance fee for the building is due tomorrow. It’s $12,000. Good luck.

Sincerely, Elena

I watched Tiffany read the letter. I saw her face crumble. She looked at Richard, who was currently trying to flush documents down the toilet in the powder room (I could see him on the hallway cam).

She looked at the door, which was now being battered by a battering ram.

She screamed.

It wasn’t a scream of fear. It was a scream of pure, unadulterated regret. She had spent her fortune to buy a criminal, and in doing so, she had funded my escape.

The door burst open. Agents in windbreakers swarmed the apartment.

“Richard Sterling! You are under arrest!”

They grabbed Richard. He was crying, begging.

One agent approached Tiffany. “Ma’am? Who are you?”

“I… I…” she stammered, holding the letter. “I live here. I… I just moved in.”

“We’re going to need you to come with us for questioning. We have reports of large financial transfers made today. Are you an accomplice?”

“No!” she wailed. “I’m the girlfriend! I just gave him money!”

“That sounds like financing a fugitive, Ma’am. Cuff her.”

I watched as they put handcuffs on Tiffany. Her Chanel dress was wrinkled. Her mascara was running down her face in black streaks. She looked at the camera—almost as if she knew I was watching.

I closed the app.

Chapter 5: The Layover

My flight began boarding.

“Ms. Sterling?” the attendant asked, checking my boarding pass.

“It’s Ms. Vance now,” I corrected with a smile. My maiden name. “I’m going home.”

I sat in my seat, champagne in hand.

I thought about the last five years. The stress. The lies. The way Richard made me feel small so he could feel big. I thought about Tiffany, so arrogant, thinking she could buy happiness.

She had paid five million dollars to learn a lesson that most people learn for free: If he will cheat with you, he will cheat on you. And if a deal looks too good to be true, it’s because the seller knows something you don’t.

I wasn’t cruel. I was just efficient.

I took a sip of champagne. The plane taxied down the runway.

Below me, New York City was a grid of glittering lights. Somewhere in that grid, Richard was in a holding cell. Somewhere, Tiffany was calling a father who would likely disown her.

And I?

I was $5,000,000 richer. I was single. And I was free.

I closed my eyes and slept like a baby for the first time in years.

Epilogue: The Postcard

Six months later.

I was living in a villa in the South of France. The olive trees were in bloom.

I walked to the mailbox at the end of the lane.

There was a letter from my lawyer in New York.

Elena,

Thought you’d want an update. Richard got fifteen years. He took a plea deal.

Tiffany wasn’t charged, but her father cut her off. She’s currently suing Richard for fraud to get her money back, but since the money is gone (well, technically, it’s with you, but the paper trail is beautifully complex), she’s out of luck.

She had to sell the Birkin bag to pay her bail.

Hope the wine is good.

– Henderson

I laughed. I folded the letter and walked back to my terrace.

I poured a glass of rosé. I looked out at the Mediterranean Sea.

I raised my glass to the empty chair across from me.

“To Tiffany,” I whispered. “Thank you for your business.”

The End