Lost Love after Daughter's Death

The sterile smell of the hospital lingered on my clothes as I sat in my car, staring at the phone screen that displayed a balance of zero. Three years. Three years of working double shifts at the gallery, selling my paintings for whatever I could get, skipping meals so I could put every dollar toward Liv's surgery fund. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars—gone.

My hands trembled as I called the bank again, hoping against hope that this was some terrible mistake. The automated voice confirmed what I already knew in my heart. The account had been emptied yesterday at 2:47 PM. Authorization code matched Tobias's information perfectly.

I drove to his office in a daze, my vision blurring with tears I refused to let fall. The gleaming corporate tower where Dean Enterprises occupied three floors seemed to mock me, its glass windows reflecting the gray Seattle sky like cold, unfeeling eyes. The receptionist's smile faltered when she saw my face.

"Mrs. Dean? Are you—"

"I need to see my husband. Now."

Tobias looked up from his mahogany desk as I burst through his office door, his expression shifting from surprise to annoyance in a heartbeat. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Elliott Bay, the same waters where he'd proposed to me six years ago. How naive I'd been then, believing his whispered promises of forever.

"Melody? What are you doing here? I told you I have the Henderson meeting—"

"Where is it?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Where is Liv's surgery money?"

His jaw tightened, and he set down his gold-plated pen with deliberate precision. "We've discussed this. The surgery can wait. Dr. Martinez said—"

"Dr. Martinez said she needs it within the month, or her condition will become inoperable." I stepped closer to his desk, my hands clenched into fists. "One hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Tobias. Three years of my life. Where is it?"

For a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or shame. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold mask he'd worn around me for the past two years.

"I moved it to a better investment account. The returns will—"

"Don't lie to me." My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it. "I saw the withdrawal. Cash transfer. What did you buy her this time?"

His silence was answer enough. I watched him straighten his tie, the same nervous habit he'd had since college, and felt something inside me break a little more.

"It's Celine's birthday," he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather. "She's been wanting this vintage Cartier necklace. 1920s, very rare. The opportunity came up, and I couldn't—"

"Our daughter is dying." The words hung in the air between us, sharp and brutal. "She's dying, and you bought your mistress jewelry with her surgery money."

"Don't be so dramatic, Melody. It's not becoming." He stood, smoothing his suit jacket. "Liv isn't dying. She's sick, yes, but