Chapter 2

"What does your boss want with me?"

Derek was sitting on the edge of our bed, staring at his phone like it might explode. The morning light made his black eye look worse than it had in the hospital.

"I don't know." His voice came out scratchy. "Maybe he just wants to meet you. You know, like a normal boss."

"Normal bosses don't text at six in the morning asking employees to bring their wives."

Derek stood up too fast and winced. "Look, Mr. Zhang is... particular about these things. He likes to know the families of his workers. It's probably nothing."

"Derek." I grabbed his arm as he tried to walk past me. "How much do you owe him?"

"Owe him?" Derek laughed, but it sounded forced. "I don't owe him anything. He's my boss, not my bookie."

"Then why were you gambling at his casino?"

"It wasn't gambling. It was networking. Big difference."

I wanted to scream. Three years of marriage and Derek still thought I was stupid enough to believe his lies. But screaming wouldn't get me answers. It would just make him shut down more.

"Fine," I said. "I'll go with you."

Derek's relief was so obvious it hurt. "Really? Thanks, babe. I knew you'd understand."

I didn't understand anything. But I was tired of being kept in the dark about our financial situation. If Derek was in trouble, I needed to know how bad it was.

We drove to the Zhang building in silence. Derek kept checking his reflection in the rearview mirror, trying to position his hair to hide the worst of his bruises. His hands shook every time he reached for the radio dial.

The building was downtown, glass and steel reaching toward the sky like a middle finger to the rest of the city. The lobby had marble floors and a fountain that probably cost more than our annual rent.

"Mr. Martinez?" A woman in an expensive suit approached us. "Mr. Zhang is waiting."

The elevator ride to the twentieth floor felt like it took forever. Derek sweated through his shirt despite the air conditioning. I smoothed my hair and wished I'd worn something nicer than my waitress uniform.

"Remember," Derek whispered as we walked down a hallway lined with abstract art. "Just be polite. Don't say anything unless he asks you directly."

"What aren't you telling me?"

Before Derek could answer, we stopped in front of double doors made of dark wood. The woman knocked once and pushed them open.

"Mr. and Mrs. Martinez."

The office was bigger than our entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city spread out below like a toy set. Behind a desk the size of our kitchen table sat a man who made the expensive furniture look cheap by comparison.

Kai Zhang was younger than I'd expected, maybe early thirties. His suit probably cost more than Derek made in six months. Everything about him screamed money and power, from his perfectly styled black hair to his gold watch.

But it was his eyes that made me step closer to Derek. They were cold, calculating. The eyes of a man who saw people as numbers on a balance sheet.

"Derek." Mr. Zhang didn't get up. "You look terrible."

"Yes, sir. About last night—"

"Last night was unfortunate." Mr. Zhang's gaze shifted to me. "Mrs. Martinez. Please, sit."

Derek practically collapsed into one of the chairs facing the desk. I sat more carefully, trying to read the situation. This felt less like a friendly meeting and more like a trial.

"Your husband has been working for me for two years," Mr. Zhang said to me. "Did you know that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you know he's been stealing from me for six months?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. Derek made a choking sound beside me.

"That's not— I never stole anything," Derek stammered. "There must be some mistake."

Mr. Zhang opened a folder on his desk. "Fifty thousand in building supplies. Sold to competitors. Another twenty thousand in equipment that mysteriously disappeared from job sites. Should I continue?"

I couldn't breathe. Derek was a lot of things, but I'd never thought he was a thief. Gambling was one thing. This was something else entirely.

"I don't understand," I managed to say.

"Your husband needed money for his gambling habit. So he decided to take mine." Mr. Zhang's voice never changed tone. "The stealing I could forgive. Boys will be boys. But Derek made a more serious mistake."

"What mistake?" Derek's voice cracked.

"You lost information about my construction projects to my competitors. Bid amounts, material costs, client lists. That cost me a three-million-dollar contract."

The room spun around me. Derek wasn't just stealing materials. He was betraying business secrets. That was corporate espionage. That was prison time.

"Mr. Zhang, please," Derek leaned forward. "I can pay you back. Give me time."

"Time?" Mr. Zhang smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You've had two years of time. You've used it to steal from me and lose my money at poker tables. Why would I give you more?"

"Because I'm good at my job. Because I have a family to support."

"You have a gambling addiction to support." Mr. Zhang stood up and walked around his desk. "Your job performance has been acceptable, but your personal choices have become my business problem."

I found my voice. "How much does he owe you?"

Mr. Zhang looked at me with something that might have been approval. "Finally, someone asks the right question."

He pulled out another paper from the folder. "Construction materials and equipment: seventy thousand. Lost business due to information leaks: three million. Casino debt as of this morning: four hundred and thirty thousand."

The numbers didn't make sense. They were too big, too impossible.

"That's..." I did the math in my head. "Three and a half million dollars."

"Give or take."

Derek made a sound like a wounded animal. I felt like I was going to throw up.

"We don't have that kind of money," I whispered.

"No," Mr. Zhang agreed. "You don't. But I have a solution."

He walked back to his desk and pulled out a different folder. This one was thicker, official-looking.

"Derek, you have two choices. Prison, where you'll serve fifteen to twenty years for corporate espionage and grand theft. Or..."

"Or what?" Derek grabbed my hand so tight it hurt.

Mr. Zhang smiled again. This time it was worse than the cold expression.

"One final poker game. Winner takes all.”