Chapter 1: The First Deposit

Chapter 1: The First Deposit

The silence in the house was a physical thing, thick and suffocating. It clung to the modern grey sofa Elara had picked out, pooled in the corners of the open-plan living room she had designed, and muted the cheerful ticking of the clock on the wall—a housewarming gift she’d bought for them. For herself, really. The house had always been hers. The mortgage was in her name, paid for by the freelance graphic design business she had painstakingly built from the ground up while her fiancé, Liam Sterling, was “finding himself.”

Seven years. A seven-year relationship, a two-year engagement, wiped clean an hour ago by a text message that had the clinical chill of a corporate layoff.

“Elara, this isn’t working. I need space. I’ve moved my things out. I’m sorry.”

Sorry. The word was a flimsy bandage on a gaping wound. He hadn’t even had the courage to say it to her face.

Her golden retriever, Rosie, nudged a wet nose into her hand, whining softly as if sensing the tremor in her fingers. Elara absently stroked the dog's soft head, her emerald green eyes fixed on the empty space on the coffee table where Liam’s ugly, inherited cigar box used to sit. He’d taken it. He’d also taken the ridiculously expensive espresso machine she’d bought him for his 27th birthday last month, but left behind the worn-out university hoodie she always stole to sleep in. The selective cruelty of it all was breathtaking.

Numbness gave way to a familiar, hollow ache. Seven years of her life had been an investment. She’d paid the bills during his "unpaid internships" at his father’s company—internships designed to teach him the value of a dollar he’d never actually have to earn. She had designed the sleek, professional branding for his three failed startup ideas, pouring her creative energy into his half-baked dreams. She had been his rock, his cheerleader, his financial safety net. She had believed him when he said he wanted to build a life away from the suffocating influence of his billionaire family, to prove he could make it on his own.

It turned out his "struggle" had a time limit. And it had just expired.

With a shaky hand, Elara picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over his contact. What could she even say? Before she could decide, muscle memory took over, her thumb swiping over to Instagram. A mindless scroll. A dopamine hit to distract from the hollowing out of her chest.

And that’s when she saw it.

The photo was posted fifteen minutes ago. It was Liam, looking insufferably handsome and smug in a crisp designer shirt she’d never seen before. His perfectly coiffed blond hair caught the light of what looked like a sterile, minimalist mansion—a world away from the cozy home she’d built. His arm was wrapped tightly around a girl who couldn't be a day over twenty-one. Platinum blonde, a vacant pout plastered on her perfectly made-up face, she was the epitome of a TikTok influencer. The caption, penned by Liam, was a dagger.

“Sometimes you have to close one door to open the one you were always meant to walk through. So excited for this next chapter with @ChloeDunne.”

Elara’s breath hitched. Chloe Dunne. She recognized the name from the dregs of Liam’s 'following' list. An influencer with a modest following, known for lip-syncing videos and “get ready with me” routines filmed in a cramped, poorly-lit bedroom. It seemed she’d finally gotten her upgrade.

The timeline slammed into her. Fifteen minutes ago. He’d sent the breakup text an hour ago. He hadn’t even waited a day. He hadn’t waited for the dust to settle, for her tears to dry. He’d launched his new life before the wreckage of their old one had even stopped smoking. The betrayal was so swift, so complete, it was almost impressive in its audacity. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. This was a calculated extraction. He had lined up his replacement before getting rid of the original.

A cold, hard fury began to crystallize over the raw wound of her grief. It was sharp and clear, a diamond forming under immense pressure. She scrolled through Chloe’s profile. Picture after picture of her posing in the same mansion from Liam’s post, flaunting new designer bags, sipping champagne. The dates on the posts went back two weeks.

He had been living a double life. While she was home designing logos to pay their mortgage, he was test-driving his new girlfriend in his father’s world.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her. It was a new text from Liam.

For a wild, stupid second, her heart leaped. Remorse? An explanation?

The message popped up on the screen.

“Hey, hope you're okay. Listen, could you send me some pics of Rosie every now and then? Really gonna miss my little furball.”

Elara stared at the text, the words blurring. He hoped she was okay? He had just detonated a bomb in the middle of her life, and he was asking for pictures of the dog? The sheer, unadulterated entitlement of it was a physical blow. He thought he could just discard her but keep the cute, convenient parts of their shared life. He wanted the highlight reel without any of the responsibility. He wanted the dog, but not the woman who fed her, walked her, and paid her vet bills.

Her gaze drifted from the phone, through the sliding glass door to the backyard. Under the soft glow of the patio light, Rosie was sniffing around the neat patch of grass, circling a particular spot. She squatted.

An idea sparked in the cold, furious core of Elara’s mind. It was petty. It was childish. It was absolutely, unequivocally perfect.

A slow, sharp smile stretched across her lips, the first real expression she’d had in hours. It felt foreign and dangerous. He wanted pictures of Rosie? Oh, she’d send him pictures of Rosie. She’d document the dog’s life for him with meticulous detail.

Her fingers flew across the screen, no longer trembling but precise and deliberate. She opened her email app.

Create new account.

First name: Liam’s Daily Last name: Dump

The email address was generated: [email protected].

She walked to the glass door, slid it open just enough to stick her phone through, and aimed it at the squatting golden retriever. The camera shutter made a satisfying click. She zoomed in to ensure the subject matter was perfectly framed. It was.

Returning to the sofa, she composed a new email.

To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Rosie Update: 10/18 - 08:15 PM

She attached the photo. She didn’t write a single word in the body of the email. The picture, in all its mundane, steaming glory, said everything that needed to be said.

She hit ‘Send’.

A strange sense of calm washed over her. It wasn't closure, not yet. But it was control. It was the first deposit into a new account, one that would be dedicated entirely to the monument of his shittiness. He had asked for pictures. He was going to get them.

Every. Single. One.