"Didn't I already tell you? I called my father."
"The bank cutting you off is just step one. Once the funding gets pulled across every channel, you won't be far from bankruptcy."
I clicked my tongue as I said it.
Fred went quiet for a beat, then spoke through gritted teeth. "Winifred! You think bribing a few bank managers and pulling some little stunt is going to make me bow to you?"
"You want to play? Fine. I'll play this to the end."
He hung up in a rage.
Clearly, he still didn't believe my call had reached the world's richest man.
That was fine. He'd believe it soon enough.
That afternoon, Fred sent me a photo.
The cramped thirty-square-meter apartment we'd rented when we first got married, seven years ago—shabby walls, peeling paint, barely enough room to turn around.
We'd had nothing back then, but we'd scraped together every cent we could and made that place feel like ours.
Now he'd taped a sign to the door: FOR IMMEDIATE SALE.
A voice message popped up.
"See that, Winifred? This old dump is just like you. Should've been cleared out a long time ago."
My fingertip hovered for a second, but I deleted him anyway.