Chapter 7 - THE RENT-FREE ILLUSION
By Tuesday evening, the legal dust had begun to settle, and the true, ugly financial underbelly of Christopher and Florence’s lifestyle was fully exposed by Marcus Vance’s forensic accountants.
Sitting at the kitchen island—the same island where I had prepped countless meals after working ten-hour logistics shifts—I reviewed the final asset recovery report.
It turned out that Christopher's "repair shop" wasn't just struggling; it was a front for thousands of dollars in unpaid equipment leases and gambling debts that he had funneled through our joint household accounts. Florence’s "expensive medications" weren't entirely medical either; a substantial portion of her monthly stipend had been going toward high-end luxury catalog purchases and hidden credit cards she had opened in Christopher’s name to maintain her illusion of high-society status.
They had lived like royalty entirely on my dime, treating me like an indentured servant while looking down their noses at me every time I packed a bag to see my hardworking parents.
My phone buzzed on the granite countertop. It was an incoming call from an unlisted facility number.
I tapped accept.
“Sabrina?” Christopher’s voice came through the speaker, sounding thin, rasped, and utterly broken. He was calling from the county jail holding block.
“You’re calling the wrong number, Christopher,” I said flatly. “My divorce lawyer will be serving you your petition papers by morning.”
“Wait, please, just listen!” he pleaded, desperation bleeding into every syllable. “My bail is ten thousand dollars, and my public defender says the prosecutor is pushing for a felony domestic battery charge because of the medical records from your ER visit! Sabrina, I can’t stay in here. These people are terrifying. If you drop the charges, I’ll sign whatever property waivers you want. I’ll never bother you again.”
I closed my eyes, taking a deep, steady breath of the quiet air in my house.
May you like
“You chose your mother, your lies, and your violence, Christopher,” I said, my voice steady as stone. “Now you get to live with the consequences. Lose my number.”
I hung up the phone, walked over to the kitchen sink, and blocked his ID permanently.
