Chapter 3 - The Trap ClosesThe walls were closing in, and Elias could feel the oxygen running out of the room.
Within forty-eight hours of Marcus’s visit to the apartment, the carefully constructed fantasy Elias and his mother had built began to disintegrate like ash in a hurricane. Elias rushed down to his corporate office downtown, expecting to find solace in his job as a mid-level financial analyst, only to find security guards waiting at the turnstiles.
"Mr. Vance? Your badge has been deactivated," the head of security announced flatly, handing him a cardboard box containing his desk plant and a few personal notebooks.
"Deactivated? On what grounds?!" Elias stammered, his face flushing crimson as several of his colleagues walked past, whispering behind cupped hands.
"Internal audit revealed systematic discrepancies, unauthorized wire transfers, and embezzlement of corporate funds tied to external shell accounts," the security chief replied without emotion. "HR has terminated your contract effective immediately."
Before Elias could protest, his cell phone rang incessantly in his pocket. He pulled it out, seeing his mother’s frantic face flashing on the screen. He swiped to answer.
"Elias! Where are you?!" Cynthia’s voice shrieked, barely holding onto composure. "The bank just seized my home! They frozen all my retirement accounts, my credit cards, everything! They’re claiming the mortgage was paid using embezzled funds from Wilson Construction shell accounts!"
"What are you talking about?!" Elias yelled into the phone, standing in the middle of the busy downtown sidewalk. "I just got fired! They locked me out of my office!"
"It's her," Cynthia sobbed, the realization finally crushing her arrogant facade. "That little secretary... she set us up. She owns us."
Elias hung up the phone without answering. His hands shook violently as he dropped the cardboard box onto the concrete pavement, sending his coffee mug shattering into pieces. The reality of what he had done—what they had all thrown away for greed—finally crashed down upon him.
He hadn't married a boring, ordinary woman. He had married an empire, and he had spent two years biting the hand that fed him, all while laughing behind her back with his mother and his pregnant mistress.
Brenda.
Panic surged through his veins. He needed to find Brenda. She was staying at her downtown loft, waiting for the day they could move into my apartment.
Elias sprinted toward his car, only to find a bright yellow Denver boot clamped firmly onto the front wheel, alongside a notice of vehicle repossession from Wilson Financial Holdings.
Cursing wildly, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to Brenda’s building.
When he burst through the front door of Brenda’s loft, panting and disheveled, he expected to find her waiting with open arms of sympathy. Instead, the loft was half-packed. Moving boxes lined the hallway, and Brenda was frantically throwing clothes into a battered duffel bag.
"Brenda? What are you doing?" Elias gasped, slamming the door behind him.
Brenda spun around, her eyes wide with animalistic panic. She looked at Elias not with love or complicity, but with pure, unadulterated hatred.
"Get out," Brenda hissed, pointing a trembling finger toward the door.
"What? Brenda, it's me! We’re supposed to—"
"We are supposed to do nothing because you are a complete idiot!" Brenda screamed, throwing a pair of shoes at his chest. "I stayed with you, I played along with Cynthia's stupid games because you swore her family was rich! You swore we’d get the apartment, the trust, the life! And now federal agents have been here questioning me for two hours! They know about the baby, they know about the fraud, and they frozen my bank accounts too!"
Elias stared at her, feeling as though the floor had vanished beneath his feet. "You... you're turning on me?"
"I am saving myself, Elias!" Brenda shouted, shoving past him toward the door. "I never loved you. I wanted the money. And thanks to your brilliant, pathetic wife, we're all going to prison."
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The door slammed shut, leaving Elias standing alone in the empty, echoing loft.
He sank slowly to his knees against the cardboard boxes, staring blankly at the wall. The game was over. The trap had sprung. And the woman he had called "plain rice" hadn't just defeated him—she hadn't even had to raise her voice to do it.
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