Chapter 1: The Empty Account

Chapter 1: The Empty Account

The lie wasn't the single strand of blonde hair on his jacket; it was the casual way he’d brushed it off, his charming smile never faltering. “Must be from the tube, love. It’s packed this time of day.” The lie wasn't even the scent of unfamiliar perfume clinging to his favourite hoodie, the one Elara had bought him for his birthday. It was the text message that had flashed up on his phone screen while he was in the shower, a screen left carelessly facing up on their shared coffee table.

‘Last night was amazing. Can’t wait for round 2. ;)’

The sender was 'Sarah Work'. Elara knew for a fact that Julian hadn't worked a day in the six months since his last "brilliant startup idea" had fizzled out into a series of expensive lunches and zero profit.

When he emerged from the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, steam curling around his smugly handsome face, she didn't scream. She didn't cry. The pain was a cold, sharp thing twisting in her gut, too precise for messy emotions. She simply held up the phone.

“Who’s Sarah Work, Julian?”

The easy confidence in his eyes flickered, replaced by the panicked darting of a cornered animal. The predictable cascade followed: denial, then gaslighting (“You’re going through my phone now? What’s wrong with you?”), and finally, a pathetic attempt at blame-shifting (“Maybe if you weren’t so busy with your dissertation…”).

Elara listened, her expression unreadable. She had poured everything into this relationship for two years. She’d worked double shifts at the pub to cover his half of the rent when he was 'between ventures'. She’d typed up his CVs, proofread his half-hearted job applications, and celebrated his gaming victories as if they were Nobel Prizes. She had built her life around him, believing in the future he painted with such effortless, lazy strokes. A future, she now realised, that he was happily painting with someone else.

“Get your things,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of the emotion churning inside her. “I want you out. Now.”

“Elara, come on, don't be like this,” he whined, his tone shifting from indignant to placating. “It was a mistake. It meant nothing.”

“The mistake was me ever trusting you,” she replied, walking over to the wardrobe and pulling out two black bin bags. She threw them at his bare feet. “You have ten minutes.”

He stared at her, truly seeing the cold resolve in her eyes for the first time. The game was over. With a frustrated sigh, he started stuffing his designer clothes into the bags, his movements jerky and resentful. He took the PlayStation, the 60-inch TV she’d paid the deposit for, and his collection of ridiculously expensive trainers. He left behind the framed photo of them on holiday, the coffee mug she’d bought him that said ‘World’s Best Boyfriend’, and a pile of unopened, official-looking letters on the hall table he'd always dismissed as ‘junk mail’.

When the door slammed shut, the silence he left behind was deafening. The apartment, once a symbol of the future she was building, now felt like a mausoleum. Every object held a memory, now tainted. For an hour, she let the heartbreak wash over her, a raw, ragged grief that left her breathless. But Elara Vance was a survivor. She had dragged herself from a working-class background into one of the country's top universities on sheer grit alone. She would survive this.

The first step was practical. Damage control. She needed to pay the electricity bill, due tomorrow. A small act of normality in the chaos. She opened her laptop, the screen illuminating her tired face, and logged into her online banking app.

Card declined.

Frowning, she tried again. Insufficient funds.

A cold dread, far worse than the sting of infidelity, began to creep up her spine. That wasn't possible. She’d just been paid. There should have been over five thousand pounds in their joint savings account. It was her final year's tuition fee, her living expenses, every penny she had painstakingly saved over two years of gruelling work.

Her fingers trembled as she clicked through to the joint account page. She stared at the screen, her brain refusing to process the numbers.

Account Balance: £7.34

Her breath hitched. She scrolled down, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. The transaction history was stark and brutal. There was her paycheque going in two days ago. And then, yesterday, one single, devastating transaction.

Bank Transfer to J. CROFT - £5,000.00

The air left her lungs in a pained gasp. He hadn't just cheated on her. He had gutted her. He had taken everything.

Panic gave way to a frantic, desperate hope. She called the bank, her voice cracking as she explained the situation. The woman on the other end was sympathetic but firm.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Ms. Vance. But as it was a joint account, Mr. Croft had every legal right to withdraw the funds. From the bank’s perspective, no crime has been committed. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

She hung up the phone, the woman’s sterile words echoing in the silent room. Nothing we can do. She called the police. They said the same thing, just with less sympathy. It was a civil matter, not a criminal one. She could try a small claims court, but it would cost money she no longer had and take months, with no guarantee of success.

He had planned it. The timing wasn't a coincidence. He had waited for her wages to clear, emptied the account, and then engineered the fight, knowing she’d find out about the affair eventually. He had wanted to be thrown out.

The despair was absolute, a heavy blanket suffocating her. She was ruined. She’d have to drop out of university, lose her deposit on the flat. Everything she had worked for, every sacrifice she had made, was gone. Wiped out by a man who couldn’t even be bothered to hide his texts properly.

Just then, her phone buzzed. A notification. A friend had tagged her in a post on Instagram. With a numb finger, she tapped it open.

It was a photo from Julian.

He was grinning, holding up a brand-new, top-of-the-line graphics card, still in its box. In the background, a new, enormous curved gaming monitor sat on a desk in what was clearly a new room. He was wearing a new headset around his neck. The caption was a final, callous twist of the knife.

‘Fresh start! Time to treat myself and level up. Big things coming soon! #newbeginnings #gamerlife #investment’

The sight of him, so proud, so smug, flaunting her stolen future, shattered the last of her grief. The cold despair in her veins ignited, transforming into a white-hot, silent rage. The injustice of it all burned away her tears, leaving something hard and sharp in their place.

He thought he had won. He thought he was untouchable, protected by the law and his own shameless audacity. Sitting there in the ruins of the life he’d torched, Elara felt utterly, completely powerless. The world wasn't fair, and karma was a lie. He had taken everything from her, and he was going to get away with it.