My salary is fifty thousand a month. Right now, I'm standing at the hospital payment counter, my face burning with embarrassment because of insufficient funds. I quickly text my husband. "Send me three hundred, fast. I can't pay for my prescription." A moment later, a document appears on my screen. "Honey, don't forget to fill out the advance request form!" In that instant, I knew. We were done. I set the bill down, walked out of the hospital, and went straight to a law firm. "I need your help," I told them. "I want a divorce." 1 We've been married for three years. In that time, I put all of my personal assets into our joint account. It was Ryan's idea. "Honey," he'd said, "a marriage needs to be equal. Our incomes are so different, it could easily cause friction." "So, let's pool our money. I'll manage it, handle all the expenses. It'll help us cut down on unnecessary spending." I agreed. And now, here I am, stomach cramping in pain, my health insurance tapped out, and still two hundred dollars short. The clerk at the counter is getting impatient. "Are you paying or not? There are other people in line." I awkwardly push the bill back towards her. "Sorry, I'll have to come back another time." Ignoring her stunned look, I clutch my stomach and hobble out, each step a fresh wave of pain. Ryan's texts keep coming. "Honey, why haven't you filled it out yet? If you miss the approval window, you won't get the money today!" I glance at the message and let out a bitter laugh. Right. According to his rules, I had to submit the form within ten minutes of receiving it, or I'd lose my "advance privileges" for the day. I'd have to wait until tomorrow to try again. I take a deep breath, open my phone again, and message my best friend. I ask for a thousand. She calls me immediately. "Vivi, what's wrong? Is it an emergency?" I quickly explain. A moment later, a transfer notification pops up: fifty thousand dollars. "Let me know if you need more!" Staring at the number, a chill runs down my spine. The man I share a bed with makes me fill out a form for two hundred dollars. My best friend sends fifty thousand without a second thought. The difference between them is staggering. With the money, I get my prescription. The relief is almost immediate. On the way home, my resolve hardens. I walk in to find Ryan on the sofa, preening. "Check it out," he says, showing off a new watch. "Just came out. I snagged it." "Ten percent off, paid in full!" Seeing his smug face, my own darkens. "Ryan, from now on, I'm not giving you my money to manage." He blinks. "Babe, what are you talking about? The way you spend? You make fifty grand a month, you think you could save even ten of it on your own?" "I know you're mad," he continues, his tone placating, "but don't be. This watch is an investment." I laugh internally. When I spend money, it's reckless. When he does, it's an investment. I'd truly underestimated his hypocrisy. I push past him into the bathroom and check our joint account. There's only three hundred dollars in it. Ryan's voice comes from the other room. "Honey, I know you're upset. Tell you what, for this three hundred, you don't have to fill out a form. I'll just give it to you. See? Your husband takes care of you, right?" I don't answer. I just text my lawyer and tell him to start the divorce proceedings. He advises me that first, we need to figure out exactly how much we have in assets. He warns me that splitting it evenly, let alone getting back the majority of what I rightfully earned, will be difficult. Since I'm the one filing for divorce, I might have to make some financial concessions. I clench my fists and start scrolling through Ryan's social media. I see a post from his brother, showing off a new apartment. Prime location, best school district, paid in full. His brother is in his thirties with no steady job, and his wife is a stay-at-home mom. Where did they get that kind of money? It's obvious. Ryan. He's been funneling money from our joint account. He wants to keep bleeding me dry. Not a chance. My first instinct is to storm in and confront him, but my lawyer's words echo in my mind. I need proof. If I blow up now, I'll be the one who loses. I compose myself. Then, I go online and report all my bank cards as lost or stolen. 2 I do a quick calculation. Fifty thousand a month, plus bonuses, commission, and stock options. Over the past three years, that's nearly three million dollars that I've handed over to him. Ryan himself makes eight thousand a month. That's it. Yet he's amassed a net worth in the millions, buying himself hundred-thousand-dollar watches and other luxury goods. And me? I have nothing. My own jewelry is locked away. If I want to wear it, I have to submit a request, explaining the occasion. In his words, my frequent client dinners and networking events are "unnecessary." "Eating at home is healthier," he'd say. And jewelry? "Simplicity is best." Back then, I bought into his talk of "simple beauty." I was busy, and simple accessories were easier to pair with my work wardrobe. Now, I see it for what it was. He's been gaslighting me all along. I take another deep breath, pull myself together, and head for the safe. Ryan follows me. "Honey, what are you doing?" "I have a product launch in two days. I need to pick out some jewelry." But when I enter the code, it's incorrect. I turn to him. "You changed the password?" "I did. If you need something, just ask me. I've changed all the passwords in the house." My temper flares. "On what authority? It's my safe, my password, and my things inside it. What right do you have to change my code?" "From this day forward," I declare, "you will not control another cent of my assets. You're on your own." He remains calm. "Sweetheart, you're just tired. Has work been stressful lately? You're the one who authorized me to do this. Why the change of heart? Has someone been talking to you?" He reaches out to pat my head. I slap his hand away. "Don't touch me. I don't even know who you are anymore." He glances at the red mark on his hand, a warning in his eyes. "Be a good girl, honey, and we won't have any problems. If you misbehave, I'll have to punish you." "Open the safe," I demand. "I need my jewelry." "No can do. Remember to submit a request!" I'm about to slap him, but he grabs my wrist. "Vivi, you're being emotional. From now on, you shouldn't handle our joint finances. Don't worry, I'll take care of it for you. If you want money, just ask." I'm so angry I could laugh. "You think I can't do anything to you?" He just smiles. "You're overthinking things. Get some sleep." He's so sure of himself. He probably thinks I'll never go through with a divorce. And I don't need to ask to know that the safe is empty. I can't take it anymore. I turn and walk out. As I reach the lobby, my phone rings. It's him. "Thinking of going to the apartment on the west side? Sorry, I sold that too." I stop in my tracks and look up. He's standing at the window of our penthouse, smiling down at me. "Come back up. It's getting late." My nails dig into my palms. I can't believe he sold my apartment. "Ryan, forging a signature is illegal! You just wait." I have my lawyer draft the divorce papers and send them to him, then get in my car and drive away without a second thought. His calls go unanswered. Time is of the essence. The gloves are off. 3 I call a friend who's a computer whiz, transfer him four thousand dollars, and ask him to trace all of Ryan's financial transactions, as well as the sources of his family's income. At the same time, I submit an anonymous tip about his unexplained wealth. Ryan works for a state-owned enterprise. They're cracking down on corruption right now. He just bought a thirty-thousand-dollar watch and drives a hundred-thousand-dollar car. Most people in his position are trying to fly under the radar, but not Ryan. He's new money, and he flaunts it. He's made a lot of enemies. He used to claim it was all my money. Now, let's see what the authorities think of that. My friend works fast. Soon, he sends me the files. As I look through the transaction details, my heart sinks. For three years, under the guise of supporting his parents, he's been sending them five thousand a month, with a minimum of fifty thousand on holidays. In total, he's given them over two hundred thousand. He spent three hundred thousand on his brother's new apartment. He's also bought countless luxury goods in their names. His sister-in-law is constantly showing off new designer bags. And the whole time, he's been telling his colleagues he's buying these things for me. All my money, lavished on his family, while I have to beg for money to buy medicine. My friend who works at the bank calls me. Ryan's work is investigating him, and they've requested his bank statements. "Hey, is Ryan in some kind of trouble?" "Yeah," I say. "I reported him." She's stunned. When I tell her what he's done with my money, she explodes. "Vivi, are you insane? You were never on equal footing. Marrying him was one thing, but giving him your money?" "I know. I regret it. That's why I'm divorcing him." She's silent for a moment. "If you need anything, just ask." She hangs up and immediately transfers me another ten thousand. A text follows: "I know you're broke right now. A girl's gotta have her sister's back. Don't worry about it." I laugh, then I start to cry. I'm a mess, sitting on a park bench, scaring away the passersby. I wipe my tears and stand up. Ryan calls again. "Vivi, you're trying to ruin me. It was you, wasn't it?" "They brought me in for questioning. Guess what? I walked out of there clean. You can't touch me." I just laugh. "I have plenty of time to fight you." "I sent you the divorce papers. You're on your own." He's stunned. "What? You're divorcing me? Over a piece of jewelry? You reported me, and now you want a divorce?!" "That's right." I hang up and immediately boost a post about him online. While his work is investigating, I'm going to make sure everyone knows what he's done. I don't use his name, but I provide enough details that it's obvious. "My Husband, the State Employee, Thinks He's a CEO. I Have to Submit a Request to Spend My Own Money!" The title alone is enough to get people talking. I post a copy of the advance request form, along with a few "highlights," like a twelve-dollar cake and a nine-dollar pair of pantyhose. I even include his annotations. "Honey, you can get a birthday cake for four dollars if you use a coupon. It's just a birthday, you have one every year. No need to be so extravagant." "Your pantyhose always rip. Stop buying expensive ones. Just get them wholesale from Wish." I hope you're ready for this, Ryan. You're about to go viral.
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