The Billionaire Husband Who Faked Bankruptcy

I'm bankrupt.

Rodney Lambert clutched my hand, his eyes rimmed red.

So I quit my stable job, delivered food by day and worked as a paid chat companion by night, scraping together that astronomical sum for him.

He slowly pulled himself back together. I started getting ringing in my ears, shaking hands, meals at all hours or no hours at all.

That day my fever had only just broken, and I happened to pass down Main Street.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window, there he was, dabbing the mouth of the woman across from him. The steak had two bites out of it. His watch would have taken me three years to earn.

My hot soup spilled all over my shoe.

When I walked in he froze, scrambling to his feet. She was the one who insisted

Done with the act?

I set the divorce papers on the table. You burn through my life, she enjoys your money. You two suit each other.

Rodney smashed his glass, his voice cracking. Who gave you the right to decide for me!

I smiled. Because at home you wear a ratty T-shirt, but you walk out wearing Jo Malone. A bankrupt man, who can afford that scent?

His face went bloodless.

The woman rose to leave, but he grabbed my wrist. Let me explain.

Touch me again, I pulled my hand back, spacing out each word, and those few shares of yours will be just enough for me to sue you for marital-asset fraud.

That night, he slid the black card under the door, with a line attached. Don't go.

I dialed my lawyer.

The lawyer was eating a late dinner when he picked up, the chewing pressed right against the receiver. You sure?

Sure. I gave him the unit number. Come now.

I hung up and sat down in the entryway.

The black card under the door caught the light, like a snake's flicking tongue.

My phone buzzed. He'd sent a voice clip, three seconds. I opened it and there was only the sound of crying.

Another came through. I'm begging you, don't do this.

I sent back a period.

The lawyer arrived at two in the morning, carrying a folder and a takeout box of fried noodles.

He came in, caught the smell, and frowned. There's perfume in your place.

He was here.

Where is he now?

No idea.

I took the fried noodles. Maybe at some hotel, maybe crouched in his car. He won't dare go far.

The lawyer opened the agreement. This share-transfer part. You want fifty percent?

Sixty.

I snapped apart the disposable chopsticks. He used company money to plug the hole in that garbage project. I still haven't settled that account with him.

The lawyer drew a line across the paper. At sixty percent he'll fight you to the death.

Good.

I swallowed the noodles. Fighting to the death is exactly what I want from him.

Before I'd finished the words, someone pounded on the door.

Hard and fast, the whole door shaking with it.

The lawyer glanced through the peephole, then turned and mouthed at me: it's him.

I walked over and pulled the door open.

Rodney was leaning against the frame, hair a mess, shirt collar twisted to one side, a bruise on his face, no telling whether he'd walked into something or someone had hit him.

He saw the lawyer, his pupils contracting, then stared straight at me. What did you call him here for?

You don't get it?

He reached out to grab my arm. I stepped back, and his hand stopped in midair.

Listen to me, his voice was badly hoarse, that thing at the restaurantthat woman, she's Mr. Chavez's daughter, I had no choice.

Mr. Chavez's daughter's steak, and you were feeding it into her mouth?

I pulled the door wider. Come in. Standing in the doorway is embarrassing.

He stumbled a step inside, his eyes sweeping over the folder the lawyer had spread open, his face paling. What are you two signing?

Divorce papers.

I won't sign.

Suit yourself.

He suddenly laughed, and on that bruised face the laugh looked vicious. Sue me with what? Do you have proof? The company's books are spotless. You won't dig up a thing.

I fished a USB drive out of the shoe cabinet drawer and tossed it onto the coffee table.

He looked at it and went still.

"The combination on the safe in your study is our wedding anniversary."

I said, "Some habits of yours, you haven't changed in ten years."

His lips were trembling.

So were his hands.

He reached for the drive. I pinned it down.

"You touch it, and I call the financial crimes unit right now."

I held his eyes. "Bet on whether I'd dare."

His fingers curled back.

The lawyer cleared his throat beside us. "Mrs. Lambert, I haven't seen what's on this drive."

"You don't need to."

I turned to him. "Sign now, and I only want sixty percent of your shares. Don't sign, and I'll make sure you can't even hold on to the other forty."

He shut his eyes.

When he opened them again the rims were red, and his voice came out soft, almost pleading. "That money, it really was for the company. Once the project goes through, all of it comes back."

"Whether the project goes through has nothing to do with me."

I pushed the pen across to him. "All I know is, the money you've brought home these past six months is less than what I made running food deliveries."

He laughed again, an ugly laugh this time. "You? Running deliveries? You quit your day job?"

"You didn't know?"

"I"

"There's a lot you don't know."

I cut him off. "You don't know my ears ring so bad I can't sleep till the middle of the night. You don't know my hands shake too much to hold a soup bowl. The only thing you know is what your Jo Malone smells like."

He lowered his head.

His shoulders caved in, like someone had pulled the bones out of him.

"Sign it," I said.

He picked up the pen. The tip hovered over the paper and stayed there a long time.

The lawyer coughed.

He looked up suddenly. "Can Ican I make a call to her?"

"Who?"

"That Mr. Chavez'sI need to know she's safe."

I looked at him and said nothing for a while.

Then I took the pen out of his hand and signed his name for him.

"I'll save you the phone bill."

I slid the agreement over to the lawyer. "Your Ms. Chavez left town an hour ago. Her father just got called in by the regulatory investigators."

The last bit of color drained from his face.

The lawyer gathered up his folder and headed for the door. Passing him, he paused. "Mr. Lambert, I'd advise you to find a lawyer of your own, quickly."

The door closed.

He stood in the middle of the living room like a clay statue.

After a long while he spoke. "When did you find out?"

"The first time you slipped into the study at midnight to take a call."

"Then why did you still"

"Still scrape money together for you?"

I gave a small laugh. "I wanted to see how long you could keep up the act."

He crouched down and clutched his head with both hands.

His shoulders jerked up and down.

I went back to the bedroom to pack.

I'd zipped the suitcase halfway when I heard him cry out somewhere outside, muffled, like he had his face buried in the couch cushions.

I pulled the door open.

He raised his head, his face streaked with tears. "What's actually on that drive?"

"Last month's fake reports from your company."

"Where did you get them?"

"Your assistant gave them to me."

He froze.

I wheeled the suitcase past him. "You think you're the only smart person in the world?"

At the door I stopped for a step.

"Was it fun, playing me for a fool?"

I didn't look back.

When the door shut behind me, I heard something shatter inside.

Maybe a glass. Maybe something else.

I'd dragged the suitcase to the elevator when Rodney Lambert came running out barefoot.

"Your assistant, when did she"

He grabbed the elevator door, his knuckles white. "How long has she been working with you?"

The elevator arrived. I stepped in. "She's smarter than you."

He jammed a hand against the door to keep it open. "What did you offer her? I'm the one paying her salary."

"You pay her salary. I provide it."

His hand slackened.

The doors started to close. He shot his arm out again. "Wait."

"Let go."

"At least tell me where you're going."

"None of your business."

The doors closed.

He shouted something through the gap. I didn't catch it.

A neighbor heading down to take out the trash crossed paths with me, eyes dropping to my suitcase.

I gave a small smile. "Business trip."

He nodded and didn't ask more.

The wind poured down my collar the moment I cleared the entrance, and only then did I remember my coat was still inside.

I couldn't be bothered to go back for it. I called a car on my phone.

While I waited, his call came through. I cut it off.

It came again. I blocked him.

Then my phone died.

The heat in the car was on full. The driver glanced at me twice in the rearview mirror. "Where to, miss?"

"Just drive for now."

He laughed. "Running away from home?"

"Getting divorced."

He cleared his throat and turned the mirror back.

I gave him Megan's address.

When I got there she opened the door, hair a mess, half asleep. "At this hour? What are you doing here?"

"It's done."

That woke her up.

She poured me a glass of water. "What did he say?"

"Not much. He signed."

She stared at me for three full seconds. "Could you cry, just a little? You're scaring me like this."

I didn't cry.

I finished the water and splashed my face. She followed and leaned against the bathroom doorframe. "You got the shares?"

"Sixty percent."

"He agreed?"

"His assistant handed me the reports."

She whistled. "That girl's got nerve. Won't he go after her when he finds out?"

"She's already gone."

"Gone where?"

"Don't know. I told her to leave."

She didn't ask again.

The next morning she made porridge. I'd had two spoonfuls when my hand started shaking again.

I set the bowl on the table. She watched and said nothing.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Fine, my ass."

She took the porridge away. "You're going to the hospital."

"No."

"Then you're not staying here."

I looked at her.

She glared right back. "Your hand's shaking like you've got Parkinson's. I mean it."

I went in the afternoon anyway.

The doctor asked a string of questions, then wrote out an order for tests.

While I was in line, I borrowed her phone to log in to my messages. They blew up.

In the company group he'd tagged me a dozen times, asking if anyone had seen me.

No one answered.

I scrolled down. There was one private message, from his assistant. He didn't come to you, did he?

I replied: No.

She wrote back in a second: He called me seventeen times yesterday.

I thought it over. Block him.

She sent back a smiley face.

The tests ran almost until dark. The doctor looked at the results and said I wasn't resting well and wasn't eating enough, and prescribed some vitamins.

I'd just stepped out of the exam room when the phone rang. Megan's number. I picked up, and it was his voice.

"Where are you?"

I hung up.

He called again. I just turned her phone off.

Back downstairs at her place, I saw his black car parked at the curb.

She pulled me toward the side door. He got out and came after us.

"So this is how it is? You're just going to hide from me?"

I turned around. "Are you following me?"

"I've been looking for you all day."

His eyes were ringed dark, like he hadn't slept all night. "I won't go after the assistant. Come back and let's talk this through."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"The money" He stepped closer. "I'll give you every cent, you keep the shares too, just come back. Can you do that?"

Megan planted herself between us. "Mr. Lambert, back off."

He looked at her, then at me. "You're staying with her? You're sleeping at her place?"

"None of your business."

"You're my wife."

"Not for much longer."

His chest rose and fell a few times. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the black card, holding it out. "Take it."

I didn't.

He shoved it into the pocket of my coat. "The PIN hasn't changed."

I took it back out and threw it on the ground.

He stared at the card lying there and stood still for a long time.

The wind made a worse mess of his hair.

He crouched, picked it up, didn't hold it out again, just closed his hand around it.

"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked suddenly.

I said nothing.

"You just came out of the hospital"

He edged half a step closer. "Are you sick?"

Megan pulled at my arm. "Let's go."

He was still shouting behind us. "Tell me what's wrong with you!"

I didn't look back.

It was only once we were inside the stairwell that I heard him smash something.

As Megan unlocked the door upstairs, she said quietly, "The way he looked at your hand just now"

"Don't."

Inside, while I was changing out of my shoes, a slip of paper fell from my pocket.

It was the medical report. I had no idea when he'd slipped it in.

One line was circled in pen: nervous tremor, rest advised.

I didn't read it twice. I tore it up and threw it in the trash.

That night, after she was asleep, I sat in the living room scrolling on my phone and saw he'd posted something. Just two words: It's over.

Someone had commented underneath: What's over?

He didn't reply.

I swiped past it, opened the chat with the assistant, typed a few words, then deleted them.

In the end I sent: He'll probably go in to the company tomorrow.

The assistant replied: Got it.

I locked the screen.

Headlights swept past outside, stopped below the building, then drove off.

I sat in the dark for a long time. My hand was still shaking, but less than during the day.

The next morning Rodney got to the county clerk's office before me.

He was leaning against the railing by the steps, smoking, seven or eight butts at his feet.

When I walked over he looked up and stubbed out the cigarette.

"You've lost weight."

"The papers."

He took them out of his pocket but didn't hand them over. "Last time I'm asking."

I reached out and took them, flipped through. In the photo the two of us sat side by side, both faces stiff.

I put it in my bag and turned to go.

He followed a couple of steps. "At least take a card. You've got no money on you"

"I do."

"You quit that job. How much can you make running deliveries?"

"Enough to live on."

He stopped.

I'd gone a dozen steps when I heard him call out, "I'm moving out this afternoon. The house is yours."

From then on, I was free

Out past that street, I flagged a cab. The driver asked where to.

I gave him the address of the law firm.

On the way my phone buzzed. A message from Megan: Got it done?

I replied: Yeah.

She fired back instantly: Drinks tonight.

By the time I reached the firm, the lawyer had the rest of the documents ready. I signed, stamped them, and he slid a check across to me.

"He had someone bring this over this morning. Said it's for you."

I looked at the number and didn't move.

The lawyer nudged the check toward me again. "Just take it. He won't rest easy until you do."

"What do I care whether he rests easy."

"Take it and he won't have an excuse to keep contacting you."

I thought about it, folded it, and tucked it into my pocket.

Outside I stood on the sidewalk for a while. The sky was overcast, about to rain, a damp smell in the air.

My phone rang. Unknown number.

I picked up. It was the assistant's voice, kept very low. "It's me. He blew up at the office. Smashed the place."

"Then let him."

"He traced it back to me. He asked if you'd set it up."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I didn't know anything."

"Good."

There was a pause on the line. "Vivian, what are you going to do now?"

"Find another job."

"Then I"

"Keep the job you've got for now. He won't dare touch you."

I hung up just as the bus pulled in. I climbed on and took the window seat in the last row.

We passed Main Street, and the sign of that steakhouse swung by outside the glass.

Two bites of steak. A wristwatch worth three years of my pay.

I cracked the window, and the wind poured in.

It started to rain.

My hands rested on my knees, still shaking a little.

The bus reached the end of the line, and the driver turned and called out before I realized I'd missed my stop.

The rain was heavier when I got off. I ducked into a convenience store and bought an umbrella.

The first rib bent the moment I opened it. I couldn't be bothered to swap it, so I walked under the crooked thing.

My phone rang again. Unknown number.

I answered. It was him.

Rodney Lambert.

"You blocked me?"

"What is it?"

"I left the house keys with the building manager for you. Go back and live there."

"Fine."

"You"

"I'm hanging up."

He didn't say anything more. After two seconds of silence on his end, I cut the call first.

Walking on under the crooked umbrella, I passed a noodle shop. The owner was out front wiping the sign, and she paused when she saw me.

"Haven't seen you in a while, hon."

Then I rememberedback when I was doing delivery runs, I used to stop here for a bowl of noodles, and I'd traded a few words with her.

I shook off the umbrella and went in and sat down, and she brought over a steaming bowl of fettuccine.

"You look pale. Have you eaten?"

I shook my head. I picked up the chopsticks, but my hand trembled and the noodles slid back into the bowl.

She watched for a moment without a word, then turned and set a small plate of roast beef on the table.

"On the house. Eat up and go home and sleep."

The noodles warmed me through. When I went to pay on my phone, she waved me off, but I forced thirty through anyway.

She chased me to the door. "That's too much, too much!"

"Then I won't pay next time."

The umbrella was useless. I walked back in the rain, my hair half soaked through.

Megan was in the kitchen brewing ginger tea. The second I came in she yanked the wet jacket off me and threw it in the washer.

"Where've you been all this time?"

"Took the bus past my stop."

She pushed the ginger tea into my hands. "Why are your hands still shaking?"

"They'll be fine."

"Did you take the medicine the doctor prescribed?"

I dug through my pocket for the bottle and only then remembered I'd left it at the law office.

She rolled her eyes at me and went rummaging through the cabinet for vitamins from the first-aid kit to make do.

The next morning I woke to her on the phone in the living room, her voice low.

She came back after hanging up. "That assistant of yours. She got fired."

I sat up out of the blankets. "When?"

"This morning. She called asking for your address. I didn't give it to her."

"What did she say?"

"That she'd been fired, and asked if you could not bother setting up a new job for her."

I reached for my phone.

Dialed her. Busy.

Dialed again. Powered off.

Megan leaned against the doorframe. "He's doing this to get at you."

I got out of bed and went to find my pants.

"Where are you going?"

"To the company."

"You go now, you're walking straight into his crosshairs."

"She did the work for me. I can't let her lose her livelihood."

At the company entrance, the security guard stopped me, said Mr. Lambert had given orders not to let me in.

I said, "Tell him to come out and say that to me himself."

The guard called up on the internal line, and after he hung up his face went awkward. "Mr. Lambert says he's not here."

I went around him toward the elevator. He reached out to block me, the doors opened, and there Rodney stood inside.

A fresh shirt. His face still dark.

"You came."

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

"The assistant."

He stepped out of the elevator and stopped two paces from me. "I gave her three months' severance and let her go."

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know. What do you want with her?"

"That's not your concern."

He suddenly smiled. "You made this whole trip for her? You were never this invested in me."

I stared at him. "What did you say?"

The smile dropped.

The elevator started to close, and he threw out a hand to stop it. "Let's talk."

"Talk about what?"

"About why you'll help an outsider but not me."

"She's not an outsider."

His eyes reddened again, and this time the reason made no sense. "I'm the one who's your husband."

"Ex-husband."

The two words landed like a blow, and his whole body rocked back a step.

A few seconds passed before he said quietly, "Did you get the house keys?"

"Haven't had time."

"I'll drive you back."

"No need."

He stood there in the elevator doorway, not moving, his hand still bracing the door.

"I'll bring her back," he said. "Just don't do this, all right?"