Chapter 3 - The Financial Audit
By Monday morning, the fallout from the wedding disaster reached the corporate world.
My phone finally stopped vibrating with calls from my family and started buzzing with emails from my bank, my accountant, and—most importantly—the financial institutions holding the loans I had cosigned for Chloe and Marcus.
For years, my parents had managed the illusion that Chloe was a successful entrepreneur running an upscale boutique, while Marcus was a high-flying corporate consultant. But the truth was far more fragile. Chloe’s boutique had been operating in the red for three straight years, kept afloat entirely by silent wire transfers sent from my military account. The down payment on their four-bedroom suburban house? Wired directly from my hazard-pay savings account. Even the engagement ring Marcus had flashed around like a trophy had been financed through a credit line backed by my stellar military credit score.
I sat at my desk, pulling up the master ledger of my finances. With a few swift keystrokes, I revoked authorized user access on every single credit card, line of credit, and joint account tied to my name.
Then, I dialed my attorney.
"Marcus Vance?" my lawyer, a sharp-tongued military veteran turned civilian litigator named Arthur Pendelton, asked over the phone. "The guy who got his sternum rearranged on the lawn?"
"That's him, Arthur," I said calmly. "I want a complete forensic audit of all funds transferred to Chloe Miller and Marcus Sterling over the last five years. Any accounts where I was listed as a co-signer or guarantor need to be frozen or dissolved immediately."
"Done," Arthur said, the sound of keyboard clicking echoing in his ear. "Zariah, are you sure about this? Once we pull the rug out, they're going to default on the mortgage within forty-eight hours. The boutique will fold by the end of the week."
"They wanted to play high-stakes games in public, Arthur," I replied coldly. "Let's see how well they survive without my paycheck subsidizing their entire existence."
Before I could finish the sentence, my doorbell rang again. This time, it wasn't a retired army surgeon.
I walked to the door and checked the peephole. My father stood there, looking ten years older than he had on Saturday. His expensive silk tie was loosened, his hair was disheveled, and he was clutching a leather briefcase like a lifeline. Behind him stood my mother, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
I opened the door just enough to block their entry.
"Dad. Mom," I said, my voice completely devoid of warmth. "You're a long way from the country club."
"Zariah, please," my father said, his voice cracking with a mix of desperation and lingering arrogance. "You have to help us. Chloe is beside herself. The bank called this morning—they've frozen our commercial lines of credit, and Marcus's company put him on administrative leave because of the police report and the viral video."
"My fiancé is crippled, Zariah!" my mother shrieked, stepping forward, her face twisted in anger. "How could you do that to him? He’s a respected man!"
"He assaulted an active-duty soldier," I reminded them, not moving an inch. "And if he ever comes within five hundred feet of me again, I won't just break his sternum; I'll make sure he spends the rest of his life eating through a straw."
"Zariah, you can't cut us off!" my father pleaded, panic finally breaking through his pride. "We need the monthly transfer for the mortgage! Without your financial support, Chloe and Marcus are going to lose everything!"
I looked at my father—a man who had spent my entire life belittling my choices, calling me a disappointment for not going to an Ivy League school, and treating my service as an embarrassing inconvenience.
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"Then I suggest," I said slowly, "they learn what it's like to earn a living."
I shut the door in their faces, sliding the deadbolt home with a satisfying, heavy click.
