After slipping back into the apartment quietly—my steps light as a cat, careful not to wake Sarah and Ethan, who were still fast asleep with soft snores drifting through the thin walls—I tucked my backpack away in the closet, the black folder of cashier's checks safely hidden against my chest until I could secure it properly.
The faint smell of dampness from the street clung to my clothes, a reminder of the early-morning trip to the bank, but I paid it no mind.
Now, my focus shifted to the next crucial step: my trust fund—the massive $200 million fortune I was set to inherit from Carter Enterprises, my family's company.
To put it simply, a trust fund is a legal arrangement where a sum of money or property is held and managed by a third party (in this case, Mr. Henderson, as the trustee) for the benefit of a beneficiary—and I was the sole beneficiary here.
It was established by my grandfather before he passed away, meant to be my lifelong protection, to ensure I would never have to worry about money, to give me the freedom to choose my own life without being trapped by livelihood.
According to the terms, it was supposed to become fully accessible to me on my 25th birthday, just six months from now.
But six months was too long; the endless rain would start in three months, and I couldn't wait that long to access the money I needed.
Besides, my parents had frozen my access to even the portion of it when I'd moved to Chicago with Ethan, cutting off all financial ties—and the ugly quarrel that had erupted between my mother and me, all because of Ethan's greedy scheming, still echoed clearly in my ears.
Ethan's greed for my family's wealth had never been subtle, not if you looked closely enough. He'd pretended to be indifferent to money, mocking my family's "obsession with wealth" in front of me, but behind my back, he'd been prying for information relentlessly: asking casual questions about my grandfather's will, hinting about Carter Enterprises' cash flow, even sneaking through my old letters from home to find clues about the trust fund.
It wasn't just the money—he wanted the power, the status that came with being connected to the Carter name, wanted to take over parts of the company that my grandfather had built from scratch.
My mother had seen through him from the start; she'd caught him lingering outside my father's home office, trying to listen in on calls about the company's finances.
Had heard him pressuring me late at night to ask my parents for "just a little help" to start his "dream business"—a business he'd never even bothered to outline.
Her words that day had been sharp with anger, but soaked in fear, like she was clinging to the last thread of hope that I would wake up:
"Rosie, open your eyes! That man doesn't love you—he's using you!
''I caught him yesterday, asking your father's assistant about the trust fund's terms, about when you'll get full access! ''
''He even lied, said you'd asked him to look into it for you! Do you think he cares about your future? He cares about the Carter money, about what your family can give him! ''
''He's been digging for information about the company's assets, about the emergency funds—he doesn't care if you starve, as long as he gets what he wants!" I could still hear the crack in her voice, the way she'd choked back tears, begging me to leave him.
My father's tone was even harsher, with uncompromising firmness: "Since you chose him, don't expect to get a penny more from this family. ''
''We'll see how long you can hold on! ''
He was never good at expressing affection; his harshness was his way of tough love, a desperate attempt to wake me up from my infatuation, to make me realize that Ethan's lies would only lead me to ruin.
Back then, I'd been blinded by love, by the stupid fantasy that Ethan was different, that he loved me for me.
I'd shouted into the phone, defending him like a fool:
"You're lying! Ethan would never do that! ''
''You just don't like him because he's not rich like us!''
You're snobs, all of you! He's the only one who sees the real me!"
Now, it just made me laugh—a cold, bitter sound that I quickly stifled, glancing toward Sarah's bedroom door.
Sarah was just as bad, egging Ethan on, whispering in his ear about how "easy" it would be to get me to hand over the money, how naive I was.
I'm bending down to touch the sole of my left boot, my thumb pressing against the hidden compartment I carved overnight while Sarah and Ethan slept—sized just right for a small burner phone. The glue on the boot's stitching is still slightly tacky, a faint reminder of last night's hasty work, and I press it gently with my nail to make sure it holds. No one would notice it unless they looked close, but I hold my breath anyway, my ears pricked for any change in the snores from the next room. I pull the burner phone out now, turning it on; its screen lights up with a faint glow, the battery full and ready, and I cup my hand around it to muffle the tiny beep it makes on startup—even the smallest sound feels like a death sentence right now. I'm dialing Mr. Henderson's private cell phone number—one I've had since I was a child, one he gave me personally, telling me to use it only if I ever needed help and couldn't reach my parents—my fingers trembling just slightly, not from fear, but from the thrill of finally putting my plan into action. It's 7 a.m. on Monday, exactly the time I planned—his law firm isn't open yet, no assistants or colleagues are on duty, and he's in his home study, far from prying ears, office surveillance, and the eyes my parents have planted in the firm. I'm covering my mouth with a scarf, deliberately lowering my voice to make it hoarse, my jaw clenched tight to keep my voice from wavering, making sure no one who overhears by chance will ever recognize it's me. The phone rings three times before he answers, his voice groggy but alert, like he's been waiting for a call or is used to taking early-morning inquiries—and I feel a bead of cold sweat trickle down the back of my neck, even though the apartment is cool. "Hello?" he says, and I can hear the rustle of paper in the background, like he's sitting at his desk, going over documents. I don't waste time with pleasantries—every second counts, and I can't risk him recognizing my voice or asking unnecessary questions. "I need you to secretly withdraw 10% of my trust fund—$20 million," I say, my voice steady and low, the scarf muffling any familiar inflections. "No notifications to my parents, no written records, no bank traces that can be linked back to my name. Transfer the money directly to the Chicago Private Trust Bank account linked to a private card my grandmother left me—you'll recognize the account number, she had you set it up for me years ago." There's a long pause on the other end of the line, so long that I can hear the faint tick of a clock in his study, and I hold my breath, my fingers tightening around the burner phone so hard that my knuckles turn white. The scarf slips slightly, and I yank it back up quickly, my eyes darting to the hallway door—Ethan's fake snores from the couch and Sarah's soft breathing from her bedroom had been faint but steady just a moment ago, and I need to make sure neither of them stops. I know he's hesitating—breaking the trust's standard terms, going against my parents' wishes, could risk his career. But I also know he'll agree; he's bound by his duty as trustee to act in my best interest, and he was close to my grandmother, would never ignore a request tied to her wishes. I stay silent, not daring to speak first, not wanting to push him—and not wanting to waste the precious seconds before Ethan or Sarah grows suspicious. "I recognize the account," he finally says, his voice quieter now, more cautious. "The white rose account—your grandmother's request. I'll process the transfer today," he adds, no further questions, no pushback. "It will clear by tomorrow afternoon. I'll delete all electronic records after the transfer, no paper trails, nothing. Your parents won't know unless someone tells them." "Thank you," I say, and hang up so quickly the receiver barely has time to click—even a single extra word could shatter everything. I jam the power button on the burner phone until it goes black, then slide it back into my boot's hidden compartment, pressing the tape so hard my thumb throbs. I tiptoe to my bed, bare feet hovering above the floor, and fumble with the black folder of cashier's checks, tucking it deep between the mattress and box spring, covering it with a blanket. And then—my blood turns to ice. Out of the corner of my eye, the door to the hallway (where Ethan had been pretending to sleep on the couch last night, and where Sarah's bedroom door sits just a few feet away) has creaked open a hairline crack, narrow but wide enough for eyes, for ears to catch every secret I just spoke. My body freezes, heart slamming against my ribs so hard I taste iron. Ethan's fake snores and Sarah's soft breathing, which had drifted in faintly just minutes ago, are both gone, vanished. A faint gray shadow shifts behind the crack—tall, broad-shouldered, the outline of his messy hair visible even in the dim light filtering through the window, unmistakably Ethan—but I can't shake the fear that Sarah is right behind him, listening too. I hear a soft rustle, then a faint press against the door. Cold sweat drips down my cheek as I clutch the mattress, knuckles white. Did they hear? If either of them did, my plan is dust, my revenge and survival gone in an instant. I can't move, can't breathe, my gaze glued to that crack, half-expecting Sarah's slighter silhouette to appear next to his. The apartment is suffocatingly silent, the clock's tick drowned out by the roar of my own heartbeat. And then—there it is. A long, grating creak, low and harsh, tearing through the silence like a knife. The old door hinge screams in protest, the sound reverberating through the small apartment, sharp enough to make my eardrums ring. The door is opening wider—slow, inevitable, unstoppable.