Chapter 3 The Box

• Dominic
• She packs faster than I expect.
• And that bothers me.
• I expected... more. Drawers slammed. Closets emptied. Something loud enough to justify the way this morning went sideways. Instead, when I step into the bedroom, she’s kneeling on the floor in front of the built-in shelves, lifting things down one by one and setting them into a small cardboard box.
• Just books.
• Folders tucked between them. A few notebooks. Her laptop. Chargers. That’s it.
• “That’s all you’re taking?” I ask.
• She doesn’t look up. “For now.”
• I lean against the doorframe and watch her for a second longer than I should. Three years in this house, and she’s leaving like she was just visiting.
• “Where are you going?” I ask.
• She pauses, fingers resting on the spine of a book. “I don’t know.”
• I frown. “You don’t know?”
• “No.”
• That doesn’t sit right.
• Marisol has always known where she was going. She plans. She prepares. The idea of her ending up somewhere temporary, somewhere careless, tightens something in my chest I don’t like examining.
• “You can stay on the property,” I say. “The guest house is empty.”
• She finally looks at me then.
• Not angry. Not grateful either.
• Just… assessing.
• “That’s generous,” she says.
• “It makes sense,” I reply. “You shouldn’t be without security.”
• “I’m not helpless.”
• “I didn’t say you were.”
• She tilts her head slightly. “Is this about keeping me close? Or because you actually care?”
• The question lands wrong.
• My jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”
• “Then answer it.”
• I don’t. I can’t decide which answer annoys me more.
• “I don’t want you ending up anywhere unsafe,” I say instead. “You’re still my wife. I have enemies.”
• Her mouth curves just slightly.
• “For how much longer?” she asks.
• I don’t respond.
• “I’ll have someone move your things over,” I say. “You won’t have to deal with it.”
• She tapes the box shut with one clean strip. “There’s nothing else to move.”
• I glance around the room. The closet alone is worth more than most people make in a year. “That’s not true.”
• “It is for me.”
• I don’t understand that. And I don’t like not understanding things in my own house.
• “Marisol—”
• “I’m done packing,” she says, standing with the box tucked against her hip. “You should let me know when the guest house is ready.”
• She walks past me without brushing my arm. That shouldn’t matter.
• It does.
• I wait until she’s gone before exhaling.
• Later, I’m in my office, phone pressed to my ear, irritation already buzzing under my skin. This divorce is supposed to be simple. Controlled. I made sure of that.
• “Run the transfers again,” I tell my lawyer. “Something’s off.”
• There’s a pause on the other end.
• “I already did,” he says slowly.
• “And?”
• “One of the accounts isn’t responding.”
• I straighten. “Which one?”
• “The logistics holding account. The one tied to the offshore routing.”
• That doesn’t make sense.
• “That account doesn’t move unless I authorize it.”
• “That’s the problem,” he says. “Your authorization isn’t working.”
• Silence stretches.
• “Try again,” I say.
• “We have. It’s locked.”
• I grip the edge of my desk. “Locked by who?”
• Another pause.
• “It’s registered under your wife’s signature,” he says carefully. “And we can’t access it without her approval.”
• “That’s impossible.”
• “I’m looking at it now.”
• I think of the box.
• The books. The folders. The way she packed like she knew exactly what she was taking.
• “Dominic?” my lawyer says. “Did you make any amendments to the ownership structure?”
• I stare at the wall, suddenly aware of how quiet the house feels.
• “No,” I say.