The numbers didn’t add up. They told a story of financial ruin. Over thirty thousand dollars, vaporized.
«Ethan, you’re as white as a sheet,» his mother said from the kitchen doorway. «Is it your blood pressure?»
«No, Mom,» he croaked, forcing himself to stand up straight. «Just dizzy.» The world felt unreal, like a poorly constructed movie set.
«Well, sit down, eat something,» she fussed. But he couldn’t eat. He couldn’t think. All he could see were the numbers, glowing, accusatory. He pulled up Thorne’s website again. Professional help. Personalized approach. Confidentiality guaranteed. At the bottom, in the fine print: Consultation fee: $350 per session. Three hundred and fifty dollars. Not four thousand five hundred. What kind of therapy was this?
«Mom,» he said, his voice low. «What would you have done… back then? With Dad.»
Helen’s bustling energy evaporated. She sat down at the kitchen table across from him, her expression serious. «Your father started ‘working late’ twenty-five years ago,» she said softly. «He started buying new clothes. I found receipts I didn’t understand. I pretended everything was fine, because the truth was too terrifying to face. I see that same terror in your eyes right now, son. Don’t make my mistake. You have to talk to her.»
As if on cue, his phone buzzed. A new transaction alert. Card transaction approved. Amount: $98.00. Merchant: Le Ciel Restaurant.
It was happening right now. While she was supposedly resurrecting a crashed server, she was dining at one of the most expensive restaurants in Chicago.
«You’re right, Mom,» he said, a cold, hard resolve solidifying inside him. «We need to talk. Right now.» He stood and grabbed his jacket.
«Ethan, wait. Sleep on it,» his mother pleaded, her eyes wide with worry.
«No. I’m done sleeping.» He typed a message to Chloe, his thumbs moving with brutal efficiency. I know you’re at Le Ciel. I’m on my way.
Her reply was a desperate plea. Ethan, please don’t make a scene. I can explain everything. Just wait for me at home.
He didn’t reply. He just grabbed his keys and walked out the door, leaving his mother standing alone in the warm, fragrant kitchen that suddenly felt like a memory from another life.
The fifteen-minute drive to the restaurant was a blur of red taillights and smeared neon. He parked across the street and watched the entrance, his heart a painful drum against his ribs. He saw her through the plate-glass window. She was in a booth in the back, wearing a stunning black dress he had never seen. And she was alone. He declined her incoming call and got out of the car.
He pushed past the host, his eyes locked on his wife. She saw him coming, and the color drained from her face.
«Ethan, please,» she whispered, meeting him halfway across the plush carpet. «Not here. Let’s go home.»
«No,» he said, his voice a low growl that drew stares from a nearby table. «The lies stop now. Where is he? Is Thorne here? Is that who you’re waiting for?»
«You don’t understand.»
«Oh, I understand thirty thousand dollars!» he hissed, his voice trembling with a rage he didn’t know he possessed. «I understand my savings account is empty! What is going on, Chloe?»
In the cold confines of his car, under the sterile glow of a streetlamp, the truth finally spilled out, a story so bizarre and painful it felt like fiction. Her brother, Kevin, killed in a car crash a decade ago. His infant son, who they were told had died alongside him. A phone call from a stranger three months ago. The insidious Dr. Thorne, a predator who had somehow learned their story and claimed the boy had survived, had been illegally adopted. Thorne claimed to have the proof, and for a price, he would share it. He was blackmailing her, systematically draining their finances, forcing her to spend money at specific lavish places—restaurants, spas, boutiques—as a sick test of her «commitment and solvency.»