CHAPTER 5 - PAPER FORTUNES

Sera's POV

The study door clicked shut behind me. 11:47 PM. The house had gone quiet an hour ago. Jonathan's snoring drifted through the walls. Even that sounded content.

I opened my laptop. The Excel icon stared back at me like an old friend. Numbers. Beautiful, honest numbers.

"Alright. Let's see what we're really working with."

The bank statements loaded first. Checking. Savings. Investment accounts. All joint accounts, because we were partners. Equal partners. That's what we'd said.

I started with Jonathan's trust fund paperwork. The Blackwood family fortune. Old railroad money, he'd told me. Generations of wealth. The reason he could pursue "passion projects" while I worked.

The document opened. Legal language swam before my eyes, but I found what I was looking for. The distribution date.

"March 15, 2034."

I counted on my fingers. Once. Twice. Three times because my brain wouldn't accept it.

Ten years. Ten more years before Jonathan could touch a penny of his family's millions.

"That can't be right."

I pulled up the original trust documents. The ones from our engagement, when he'd shown me our golden future. When he'd said we'd never have to worry about money.

There it was. The same date. It had always been 2034.

"But you said..." I spoke to the screen like it could answer. "You said it was just a few years. Just until you turned thirty."

My phone buzzed. A banking alert. The mortgage payment had processed. $4,827. From our joint checking. From the account I filled every month with authentication fees.

I pulled up the payment history. January's mortgage. My deposit two days before. December's mortgage. My deposit. November. October. Going back and back and back.

Every. Single. Payment.

"No." The word came out like a prayer. "No, that's not... Jonathan handles the finances. He said he handles the finances."

I opened another spreadsheet. Income and expenses. The one I updated religiously every Friday night while everyone slept.

Oliver's school tuition: $2,100 monthly. Paid from my authentication of the Weatherby collection.

Groceries: $800 monthly. Paid from my work at the Hartman estate sale.

Jonathan's car payment: $689 monthly. Paid from my evaluation of the Morrison paintings.

"When did you last contribute anything?" I whispered to the sleeping house. "When did you last pay for anything?"

I searched Jonathan's name in the deposits. His investment firm salary should be there. Had to be there. He went to work every day. He wore the suits. He carried the briefcase.

Last deposit: $1,200. Date: Eight months ago.

Eight. Months. Ago.

My hands shook as I pulled up his company's website. Blackwood Investments. There was his photo. Managing Partner. That confident smile. The one that promised security.

I found the state business registry. Searched the company name.

Status: Dissolved. Date: Nine months ago.

Dissolved. The company was dissolved. Had been dissolved. Past tense. Done. Gone. 

"You go to work every morning." I stared at the screen. "You put on your tie. You take your coffee. Where do you go?"

More searches. More documents. Credit card statements I'd never examined because Jonathan handled the finances. Jonathan took care of everything. Jonathan was the numbers guy.

Lunches at the Fairmont. Three, four times a week. Always for two.

"Business meetings," I mimicked his voice. "Important clients."

Charges at Nordstrom. Women's department. $300 here. $500 there.

"Gifts for your mother." My laugh sounded broken. "Your mother who lives in Florida. Who hasn't visited in two years."

The Visa bill alone was $8,000. Paid in full. By me. By my authentication of a questionable Cézanne that turned out to be real.

I opened my authentication log. Every job. Every payment. Every sixteen-hour day studying brushstrokes and signatures and chemical compositions.

This year alone: $387,000.

Last year: $342,000.

The year before: $298,000.

"I'm not working for fun." The realization hit like ice water. "I'm working because I'm the only one working."

My phone lit up. Another alert. The electricity bill. Auto-paid from checking. From money I'd earned squinting at paintings under UV lights.

I thought about dinner. How Jonathan had sat there, checking his phone. Probably reading news about companies he didn't work for. Deals he wasn't making. Money he wasn't earning.

While Vivienne cleared the table.

While I paid for the food she was clearing.

"Is that why?" I asked the empty room. "Is that why you need her? Because you can't pretend to be the provider if I'm here? If I see?"

The numbers blurred. Not from tears. From exhaustion. From years of 5 AM alarms and midnight spreadsheets. From being the primary earner while being the secondary parent.

I clicked back to the trust fund documents. Searched for loopholes. Conditions. Anything.

There. Section 47-B. Emergency provisions. The trust could be accessed early for medical emergencies. Educational expenses. Or...

"Custody of dependent children in case of divorce."

The words glowed on the screen like a neon sign.

In case of divorce. If Jonathan had custody. If he was the primary parent. The trust would release funds for the child's welfare.

"No." But even as I said it, I knew. "You wouldn't. Not Oliver. Not our son."

But the lunches for two. The women's department charges. Vivienne at every school event. On every form. In every photo.

My phone buzzed again. A reminder for tomorrow. 5 AM: Make Oliver's breakfast. 6 AM: Pack his lunch. 6:30 AM: Drive him to early chess club.

All while Jonathan slept. All while Vivienne probably dreamed of the life she was stealing. All while I funded every moment of it.

I closed the laptop. The numbers had told their story. Eight years of marriage. Eight years of being the only one working. Eight years of paying for my own erasure.

Tomorrow I'd wake up at 5 AM. I'd make breakfast. Pack lunches. Drive to school. Work all day to pay for a life where I was becoming invisible.

But tonight, I knew the truth. The Blackwood fortune was a decade away. The husband who handled finances hadn't earned a penny in eight months. The only thing keeping us afloat was me.

The secondary contact. The absent mother. The ATM.

I stood up. My body ached from hunching over spreadsheets. From carrying the weight of a family that was slowly forgetting I existed.

As I reached for the door, I noticed something else on the desk. Jonathan's planner. Open to next week.

Tuesday, 3:30 PM: Oliver's science conference with V.

With V. Not even her full name anymore. Just V. Like she was so permanent, so essential, she only needed one letter.

But underneath, in Jonathan's messy handwriting, was something else. Something that made my blood turn to ice.

"Meeting with Morrison - custody modification papers."

Custody modification.

He wasn't just replacing me.

He was erasing me.