The $3 Million Escape

The $3 Million Escape

Gavin

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For fifteen years, my wife Sarah' s complaints were the soundtrack of my life. "Eight thousand dollars," she' d whine, always about the paltry dowry my mother gave us. It was a constant, low-level hum, punctuated by her rants about her cousin Jessica' s lavish gifts and exotic vacations. Tonight, after a call with Jessica, it escalated. "Hawaii again," she fumed, eyes burning with a strange, calculating fire. Then, the unthinkable: "What if we get divorced?" A fake divorce, she clarified, a scheme to extort money from my mother. She envisioned millions, and my mother' s precious jewelry. I stared at her, stunned by the audacity, the naked greed. My phone buzzed. A text from my boss: `$3 million bonus. Wire transfer tomorrow.` A strange calm washed over me. The words silenced Sarah' s relentless complaining, the past fifteen years of bitterness. I looked at her, truly looked at her, and a plan of my own began to form. This wasn' t just about the money anymore. It was about quiet, about peace, about freedom. "Okay," I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. "Let' s do it." Her triumphant grin missed the cold resolve settling deep in my gut. This wasn' t her fake divorce. It was my real one.

Introduction

For fifteen years, my wife Sarah' s complaints were the soundtrack of my life.

"Eight thousand dollars," she' d whine, always about the paltry dowry my mother gave us.

It was a constant, low-level hum, punctuated by her rants about her cousin Jessica' s lavish gifts and exotic vacations.

Tonight, after a call with Jessica, it escalated.

"Hawaii again," she fumed, eyes burning with a strange, calculating fire.

Then, the unthinkable: "What if we get divorced?"

A fake divorce, she clarified, a scheme to extort money from my mother.

She envisioned millions, and my mother' s precious jewelry.

I stared at her, stunned by the audacity, the naked greed.

My phone buzzed.

A text from my boss: `$3 million bonus. Wire transfer tomorrow.`

A strange calm washed over me.

The words silenced Sarah' s relentless complaining, the past fifteen years of bitterness.

I looked at her, truly looked at her, and a plan of my own began to form.

This wasn' t just about the money anymore.

It was about quiet, about peace, about freedom.

"Okay," I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. "Let' s do it."

Her triumphant grin missed the cold resolve settling deep in my gut.

This wasn' t her fake divorce.

It was my real one.

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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