The ATM Is Closed

The poison burning through my veins tastes exactly like my husbands betrayalbitter, cold, and fatal.

Seven years of devotion. Thats what I sold my soul for.

I bankrolled Tristans rise from the gutter to the penthouse, thinking my generosity was the foundation of our love. I was a fool. To him, my inheritance wasn't a gift; it was a leash he wanted to choke me with.

While I rot alone in this empty mansion that feels more like a mausoleum, he isn't grieving. He is with her. Cassie. The girl he actually wanted. The girl hes building a family with on my dime.

My vision fades to black. My heart stops, heavy with a regret so toxic it screams for justice.

But then, my eyes snap open.

Air rushes into my lungs. The smell of death is gone, replaced by the scent of old textbooks and expensive perfume.

I am back.

And this time, Im not signing the check.

Chapter 1

"Cordelia, just because youre loaded doesnt mean you own the world! We dont want your pity, and we definitely dont want your money!"

The voice was shrill. Grating.

I blinked, the world tilting on its axis.

My vision cleared, focusing on the girl clinging to Tristan like a barnacle. Cassie.

She was playing the martyr, shielding him with her body, her face twisted in a mask of righteous indignation.

I looked past her. Straight at Tristan.

He was twenty again.

He wore a denim jacket that had been washed until it was practically white, the fabric fraying at the cuffs.

But, God, life wasnt fair. Even in rags, the man was breathtaking.

Tall. Lean muscle coiling under that cheap fabric. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass and eyes cold as a winter night. Poverty didn't make him look pathetic; it made him look dangerous. Noble.

My breath hitched.

I stumbled back a step, my hip slamming into the desk behind me. The sharp pain grounded me.

How long had it been since I saw this version of him?

Ten years? Twenty?

It felt like a lifetime.

Because it was. It was a whole other life.

Tristan saw me recoil. A flicker of confusion cracked his stony expression.

Cassie was still yapping, spewing her rehearsed lines about dignity and pride, but the sound faded into static.

My blood ran cold.

I knew this scene. I had lived it. I had died because of where this road led.

This was the day. The day he refused my help, and Istupid, blind, obsessed Cordeliaforced it on him anyway.

I had loved Tristan for seven years.

I knew his story. Everyone knew. He was the scholarship kid in a sea of trust fund babies.

His father, Lester, was a degenerate gambler who drank away every cent and came home to use Tristan and his mother as punching bags.

His mother, Sandra, couldn't take the hell anymore. She walked into the East River and never walked out.

Tristan survived. He scraped by on scholarships, odd jobs, and sheer, stubborn grit.

We shouldn't have crossed paths. I was old money; he was no money.

But he was brilliant. The prep school needed his GPA to boost their Ivy League acceptance stats, so they gave him a full ride.

The rest of us? We were just biding time until we inherited empires. We partied, we skipped class, we burned cash.

Tristan was the anomaly.

He sat in the front row. He absorbed every word. And the second the bell rang, he sprinted to work his shift at the diner, or the warehouse, or wherever would pay him under the table.

He was never ashamed. He walked through the halls with his head high, unbowed by the weight of his reality.

That was when I fell for him.

I loved him, so I couldn't stand seeing him suffer.

I was young. Naive. A spoiled princess living in a bubble of privilege. I thought I could fix his life by throwing expensive things at it.

He worked nights, skipping breakfast and lunch to save money. So, I started bringing him gourmet lunches.

"Tristan, try this. My private chef made filet mignon. Its to die for."

"And these truffles? My dad had them flown in from Italy this morning. You have to taste them."

I was an only child, raised on a pedestal, surrounded by people who never said no. My brain was filled with cotton candy and diamonds.

I wanted to give him the best.

I never stopped to ask if he wanted it.

The class clowns loved it.

"Cordelia, come on," one guy jeered, leaning back in his chair. "He wouldn't know a truffle from a toadstool. He's probably used to eating out of the dumpster behind the cafeteria!"

"Shut the hell up!" I snapped, glaring at them. "None of your business!"

I was so busy defending him, I didn't look at him.

I didn't see Tristans hand gripping the plastic lunchbox. I didn't see his knuckles turn bone-white, the blood draining from his fingers as he squeezed the container until it nearly cracked.

He went rigid. Then, he set the box down on my desk.

"Thanks for the offer," he said, his voice void of emotion. "But I don't need it."

"Don't be like that, Tristan!" another boy shouted, winking at his friends. "Just date her! If you lock that down, youll never have to work a day in your life!"

"Yeah! Daddy won't have to worry about the bookies breaking his legs if you have Cordelia's bank account backing you up!"

Laughter exploded in the room. Cruel. Sharp.

I slammed my hand on the desk. "I said shut up!"

The room went quiet. My anger had weight.

But Tristan didn't wait for my defense.

He stood up, the chair screeching against the floor, and turned to leave.

Panic flared in my chest.

I grabbed the lunchbox and ran after him. "Tristan! Don't listen to those idiots! Just eat the food, okay? You have a double shift tonight, your body can't run on air!"

He stopped.

He spun around so fast I almost crashed into him.

I froze. The air left my lungs.

There was no gratitude in his eyes. No affection. Not even annoyance.

It was pure, unadulterated hatred.

He looked at me like I was something vile on the bottom of his shoe. A disgust so deep, so visceral, it felt like he had physically slapped me across the face.

Chapter 2

Teenage memories are made of Teflon. Nothing sticks.

I forgot the look of pure hatred in his eyes almost instantly. I just kept chasing.

I became his shadow. I even started studyingactually opening a textbook for oncejust so I could follow him to the same university.

My father, Raymond, was so thrilled his spoiled princess was finally showing some ambition that he doubled my allowance.

But while I was swimming in cash, Tristan was drowning.

College was a different beast.

His financial aid application got "lost" in the system. The hardship grant he was counting on? It went to a guy whose uncle sat on the board of trustees.

It got ugly.

I watched him waste away. Some days, his only meal was a stale roll from the cafeteria and a cup of tap water.

I tried to help. I offered to write a check.

He shut me down. Cold. Hard.

He picked up a third shift. Then a fourth. He worked until his body broke. He collapsed on the concrete, a heap of exhausted bones and pride.

That was my breaking point.

I didn't ask this time. I cornered him.

"Why are you doing this, Tristan? What is the point of killing yourself over pride?"

I went straight to the bursars office and paid his tuition in full.

But I wasn't the same oblivious girl anymore. I had learned a thing or two about his fragile ego.

I stopped making grand gestures. Instead, I played games.

At lunch, Id order too much food. "I can't finish this," I'd lie, pushing a tray of untouched food toward him. "Help me out? I hate wasting it."

"I won these tickets," Id say, waving passes to a concert or a museum. "Theyre going to expire if we don't use them."

Slowly, the ice began to crack. Or so I thought.

We grew closer.

I bankrolled him all the way to graduation. And because I wanted to be the perfect, supportive friend, I extended my charity to Cassie, too. I paid for his childhood friend just to see him smile.

After graduation, Tristan launched a tech startup.

He was brilliant. He had built a gaming engine back in the dorms that was lightyears ahead of the curve. But the market didn't care about talent; it cared about connections. He hit wall after wall. No VCs would touch him.

I couldn't stand seeing him defeated. So, I went to Raymond.

My father wrote the check that saved Tristans company.

I remember that night vividly.

Tristan was quiet. Unusually so.

I was leaning on his shoulder, half-asleep, fueled by champagne and triumph, when he finally spoke.

"Cordelia why do you do this?"

I thought he was asking why I loved him. Why I gave so much.

"Because I love you," I murmured, snuggling closer. "Obviously."

I tugged on his arm, playful, drunk on my own affection. "Tristan, do you love me?"

I looked up at him, pouting. "Ive given you everything. If you don't date me now, you have no conscience."

It was a joke. Mostly.

Tristan didn't answer. He didn't pull away, either.

I took his silence for a yes.

And just like that, we were a couple.

Two years later, we were married.

It wasn't the wedding of the century. Tristan insisted he hated crowds, so we kept it small. Just a few tables of close family and friends.

My family. My friends.

On his side?

Empty chairs. He was the only one.

Marriage didn't change him. The ring on his finger didn't warm his touch.

I was delusional. I told myself this was just who he wasstoic, reserved. I convinced myself that if I just loved him hard enough, loud enough, I could melt the glacier inside him.

I was wrong.

You can't warm a heart that belongs to someone else.

By year three, the cracks in our foundation were turning into canyons.

I couldn't take the silence anymore. The cold shoulder in bed. The way he looked through me, not at me.

I started asking dangerous questions.

"Is it her? Is it Cassie?"

He would just stare at me, his face a blank mask, refusing to dignify my paranoia with an answer.

When I pushed too hard, he would just leave. The front door would slam, shaking the frame, and the silence he left behind was louder than any scream.

His stonewalling drove me insane. I was paranoid. Bitter.

I would scream at him the second he walked through the door. I threw insults like daggers, trying to get any reactionanger, hate, anything other than that dead-eyed indifference.

One night, in a blind rage, I crossed a line I couldn't uncross.

"If I knew you were going to be such an ungrateful bastard, I would have adopted a dog instead! At least a dog knows how to wag its tail when you feed it!"

Tristans face twisted. For a split second, the mask slipped, revealing something hideous and raw underneath.

Then, it was gone. He went cold.

He left that night and never really came back.

I found out the truth later. Much later.

He hadn't been sleeping at the office.

He had been with her. Cassie.

They had built a life together in the shadow of my marriage. A warm, loving home.

They even had a child.

While I rotted in my empty mansion, stewing in hatred and loneliness, he was playing house. He was happy.

Tristans company exploded. He became a titan of industry, his wealth eclipsing even my fathers empire.

I lost my leverage. I couldn't buy him anymore. I couldn't threaten him.

I had nothing to use against him.

Except for one thing.

The marriage license.

Chapter 3

I gambled my entire life on revenge.

I refused to divorce him. I didn't care how many zeros he wrote on the check.

He destroyed me. I would destroy him.

I made sure the woman he loved would always be the mistress. The dirty little secret.

I made sure his son would always be a gutter ratan illegitimate mistake.

Tristan was trapped. He couldn't sue me; a messy public divorce would tank his stock prices, and the board would have his head.

So we stayed in our cold war. For ten years.

Ten years of me screaming, breaking things, and eventually begging.

It didn't matter. He never softened. He never came home.

I withered away in that empty house, swallowed by the silence. When I finally died, I was completely alone.

"Cordelia?"

The voice snapped me back to the present.

I looked at Tristan.

A wave of hatred so pure, so violent, surged through my veins that I physically staggered. My heart slammed against my ribs, threatening to burst.

He must have been so relieved when I died.

Maybe that was the plan all along. Maybe he tortured me just to speed up the process.

I remembered my medication being switched right before the end. Niles, the butler, told me it was a "gentler" prescription.

I trusted him.

But the new pills made me weak. My body failed. Soon, I couldn't even sit up in bed.

Then, I was gone.

It was him. It had to be.

Who else hated me enough to want me dead? Who else needed me out of the way so badly?

He wanted to put Cassie on the throne.

God, it was evil.

I stared at Tristan, fighting the urge to lunge at him and tear his throat out.

The hate was a living thing inside me.

I wasn't perfect. I was young, I was spoiled, and I bruised his fragile ego. But I never, ever deserved this.

I never forced him to marry me.

I asked him. I gave him an out. I told him I would wait if he wasn't ready.

And he repaid me with murder.

Cassies voice cut through the red haze, screeching the same lines from a lifetime ago.

"Cordelia! You think money gives you the right to trample on people? Who do you think you are?"

I looked at her.

She was wearing a white dress, looking fragile and innocent. A delicate little flower.

This was the woman Tristan killed for.

In my past life, this was the turning point. I had been trying to be reasonable, telling Tristan he could pay me back later, framing it as a loan.

But Cassie twisted it. She accused me of using money as a weapon, of humiliating him.

And Tristan believed her. He always believed her.

I finally understood. To him, my help was always an insult.

It was laughable.

I watched Cassie play the protective girlfriend, her chest puffing up with self-righteousness.

My lips curled into a smile.

"Don't flatter yourself," I said, my voice light. "Id burn this cash in a barrel before I spent a dime on either of you."

Tristans face went pale. The blood drained out of him.

Cassie froze. Her jaw went slack.

"What did you say?"

I widened my smile. Sweet. Poisonous.

"You said my money is an insult, right? That I'm humiliating you?"

I shrugged. "We go to the same school. I would never want to insult you. So, forget it. Keep flipping burgers. Keep scrubbing floors. It builds character."

Cassies background was just as tragic as Tristans. Her dad skipped town with the family savings and a mountain of debt. Her mom worked herself into an early grave and was bedridden.

Misery loves company. Thats why she and Tristan were inseparable.

She was always there. Hovering.

Whenever Tristan and I went out, she invited herself along.

If I hesitated, she would hide behind him, making her eyes big and watery.

"Cordelia is it because I'm poor? Do you not want to be friends with me?"

And before I could say a word, Tristan would step in, his voice hard.

"If you think we're not good enough for you, Cordelia, then maybe we shouldn't go."

So, I always caved. I always brought her along.

Chapter 4

She was always there. Even at dinner.

Shed stare at the lobster on my plate, tilting her head like a curious, starving bird.

"Do you eat like this every day?"

Then, her voice would drop. Wistful. Sad.

"We really aren't from the same world, are we?"

It was a precision strike. Every single time. Tristan and I would be laughing, actually connecting, and then shed drop that bomb.

The light would vanish from Tristans eyes. Hed shut down, and the conversation would die a cold death.

At first, I thought she was just tactless. A little socially awkward.

Until one day.

I was walking with Tristan, and I turned back to say something to him.

I caught her.

The mask was off.

Cassie was staring at the back of my head with a look so venomous it could kill. There was no innocence there. Only pure, unadulterated malice.

When she saw me looking, she flinched. She plastered a fake smile on her face, but it was too late.

A chill ran down my spine.

That was the moment I knew.

She didn't just dislike me.

She hated my guts.

The crazy part? Tristan and I actually had a honeymoon phase. A brief, shining moment where things were good.

His company had just landed its first major contract. We were celebrating.

He stumbled through the door, reeking of expensive scotch and success, and collapsed against me, his weight heavy and hot.

"Wifey," he slurred, nuzzling into the crook of my neck, his breath tickling my skin. "Name it. Diamonds? Cars? I'll buy you the world."

My heart swelled, foolish and desperate. I wrapped my arms around him, inhaling his scentmusk and rainand let myself believe, just for a second, that he was mine.

He pulled back, stubborn, his eyes bright and unfocused.

"No! I make money to spoil my wife. Im buying you a bag. Which one do you want?"

He fell asleep mumbling into my hair. "Cordelia I have money now. You don't have to suffer anymore."

He kept his promise. The next day, he bought me a bag. A beautiful, expensive bag.

But before I could even say thank you, Cassie appeared. Like a summoned demon.

She stared at the bag in my hands. Her expression twisted.

Then, she snatched it. Literally ripped it out of my grasp.

"Oh wow!" She giggled, turning to Tristan. "I remember this bag! Cordelia had one just like it in college. Some guy gave it to her."

She smirked. "She said it was too cheap to be seen with."

I had zero memory of that. None.

But Tristan believed her.

His face darkened. The warmth vanished, replaced by that familiar, icy wall.

He took the bag back. Without a word, he turned and walked out the door.

That was the end of the good times. The cold war resumed.

The next time I saw that bag, it was on Cassies shoulder.

She smirked at me, feigning innocence.

"Oh, Cordelia! Tristan gave this to me. You don't mind, do you?"

I saw red. I demanded she give it back.

She instantly switched into victim mode. Her eyes filled with tears, her voice trembling.

"Why are you so mean? You have a closet full of bags! Why do you have to take the only one I have?"

Tristan stormed in. He grabbed my arm and yanked me away from her.

"Let go!" he roared. "You didn't even want it! Why are you fighting her for it? Or do you just get off on taking things from people who have nothing?"

I was proud. I was hurt. I screamed back. We had a massive fight, and he left. Again.

I didn't realize it then.

Cassie wasn't talking about the bag.

She was talking about Tristan.

She thought I stole him. And she would never, ever forgive me for it.

Chapter 5

"Cordelia!"

Tristan grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight. Desperate.

"Wait!"

I spun around, ready to snap at him, but the look on his face froze the words in my throat.

His eyes were wild. Stormy. There was something dark swirling in his irises, something that looked terrifyingly like panic. It was a look that didn't belong on his face.

His voice shook, vibrating with a tremor I had never heard before.

"No. This is wrong. It's not supposed to be like this."

He stepped closer, invading my personal space.

"Cordelia, why did you stop? Why aren't you funding me? You love me, don't you?!"

I stared at him, my heart skipping a beat. Not from attraction. From shock.

Was he high? Having a psychotic break?

In my past life, twenty-year-old Tristan was an iceberg. He was cold, distant, and composed. He never raised his voice. He certainly never chased after me, begging for validation.

"Let go of me," I hissed, trying to yank my arm back.

He didn't let go. He squeezed harder, his fingers digging into my skin. His eyes were rimmed with red.

"Cordelia, don't you love me anymore?"

"Do you not want me?"

The questions hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

I gaped at him. "Tristan, are you off your meds? Or are you just possessed?"

He didn't answer. He just stared at me, unblinking. His expression was paranoid. Obsessive.

My shock curdled into anger.

In my last life, he treated me like dirt. Now he had the audacity to glare at me because I closed the checkbook?

"I thought my money was an insult, Tristan," I spat, my voice dripping with venom. "I thought it was 'humiliating.' Or is this just your game? You want to play the proud victim while secretly begging for a payout? You want to eat from my hand and bite it at the same time?"

Cassies mouth fell open. She looked like shed been slapped.

She wasn't used to this Cordelia. She was used to the doormat. The girl who walked on eggshells to protect Tristans fragile male ego.

But that girl was dead.

"Tristan," I sneered, leaning in. "Who do you think you are?"

"You're a joke."

Ingrate. Wolf in sheep's clothing.

It was baffling. How did I ever fall for a man this pathetic?

Tristan didn't explode. He didn't yell.

Instead, the color drained from his face until he was ghostly white. Like I had just gutted him.

I ripped my hand free from his grasp and walked away without looking back.

The debit card in my pocket had a hundred thousand dollars on it.

It was enough to cover his tuition and his living expenses for the year.

I called a car and headed straight for the luxury district.

Giving that money to Tristan was like throwing fresh meat into a sewer. Id rather burn it. Or better yet, wear it.

In my past life, Tristan never gave me anything. Not a single gift.

Birthdays? Anniversaries? Holidays?

He forgot them all. Or maybe he just didn't care enough to remember.

But Cassie?

She lived like a lottery winner.

She wore the watches he bought. She carried the designer bags he paid for. She flaunted his moneymy moneyin my face.

"Cordelia, look! Tristan got this for me in Paris. Did he bring you anything?"

She would cover her mouth, feigning shock. "Oh he didn't, did he?"

That would always start a fight. Id scream, Tristan would stonewall, and our marriage would fracture a little more.

Looking back, I wanted to slap myself.

I was rich. I was an heiress. Why did I care if a man bought me a bag?

I could buy the whole damn store.

I spent the hundred grand in an hour. Then I threw in another twenty from my personal account just for the hell of it.

Four bags. Chanel. Hermes. The limited editions.

I felt lighter.

But fate has a twisted sense of humor.

The moment I stepped out of the car back at campus, I ran right into them.

Tristan and Cassie.

Cassies eyes landed on the shopping bags in my hands. The logos screamed wealth.

Her expression shifted instantly.

The mask slipped.

Her eyes narrowed, burning with a mix of acid jealousy and greed.

Chapter 6

Tristan was broke. Cassie was destitute.

Her white dress was cheap polyester, frayed at the hem. She had tried to iron it, snipped the loose threads, but you can't polish poverty. It screamed bargain bin.

"Cordelia," she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "You're so rich."

Whiplash.

Five minutes ago, she was screaming at me for having "filthy money." Now, I was her best friend again?

Her eyes were glued to the Herms bags in my hands. Hungry. Predatory.

"A Birkin," she whispered, her fingers twitching. "That must be expensive."

"One of those bags costs more than your tuition for the entire year."

She leaned into Tristan, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We really aren't from the same world, are we?"

In the past, I would have panicked. I would have stuttered, apologized, tried to bridge the gap.

And Tristan would have just gotten angrier.

But today?

I smiled. A shark baring its teeth.

"So you're not just broke," I drawled. "You're slow, too? Took you this long to figure that out?"

I looked her up and down.

"I live in a penthouse overlooking Central Park. You live in a roach motel in the bad part of Queens. Of course we're not from the same world."

Cassies face turned a sickly shade of green. Her features twisted, ugly with rage.

I stepped closer, invading her space.

"Cassie," I whispered, savoring the words. "You will never be in my world."

"Die mad about it."

"Tristan