Chapter 3 - Playing the Submissive Housewife
For the next four days, I gave an Oscar-worthy performance of the docile, defeated housewife.
When Diane demanded that I organize Madison’s baby shower invitations, I sat at the kitchen table and stamped every single envelope by hand. When Madison complained that the scent of my lavender candles triggered her migraines, I quietly gathered them all up and placed them in a box in my trunk. When Eric barked orders at me to pick up his dry cleaning, wash his golf shirts, and cook four-course dinners for his visiting cousins, I did it all with a serene, pleasant smile.
“Look at her,” Diane whispered to Madison on Monday evening while I was wiping down the granite countertops. “A little firm hand from Eric was all it took. Women like her just need to be reminded who wears the pants. She was getting way too arrogant with that corporate paycheck.”
“Totally,” Madison mumbled, stuffing a handful of gourmet chocolates into her mouth. “Eric says once the baby is born, Clara should cut her hours to part-time so she can babysit while I go back to nursing school.”
I kept my back turned, continuing to wipe the counter, my lips curving into a razor-sharp smile that none of them could see.
Behind the scenes, my real life was moving at warp speed.
During the hours when Eric was at work and Diane was out taking Madison to luxury baby boutiques—using the credit card linked to our joint household account—I was executing the total extraction of my wealth.
On Monday afternoon, I visited my private bank branch in downtown Atlanta. I met with my personal wealth manager, Marcus Vance.
“Good afternoon, Clara,” Marcus said, closing the door to his private office. “I have the asset transfer authorizations ready for your signature.”
“Let’s review the numbers, Marcus,” I said, sitting down in the leather chair.
Marcus turned his computer monitor toward me. “As per your instructions, we have unlinked all your primary liquid accounts from the secondary checking accounts that Eric had authorized signer access to. Your $450,000 investment portfolio, your $220,000 municipal bond reserve, and the incoming $760,000 from the house sale will be consolidated directly into your new institutional account with Barclays Private Wealth Management in London.”
“What remains in the joint account?” I asked.
“Exactly $1,240,” Marcus replied with a faint grin. “Just enough to cover this month’s standard electric bill so no automated shutoff notices are triggered before closing.”
“And what about the credit cards?”
“All secondary authorized user cards under your primary line—including the platinum cards held by Eric, Diane, and Madison—have been scheduled for cancellation effective Thursday midnight.”
“Perfect,” I said, signing the transfer orders with a steady hand.
“One more thing, Clara,” Marcus said, handing me a heavy manila folder. “Nathan Cross confirmed that Zurich Capital has deposited the full $760,000 cash balance into escrow. The title search is complete. The closing attorney will execute the final deed transfer Thursday at 4:00 PM. You are legally clear.”
“Thank you, Marcus. You’ve been an incredible help.”
“Safe travels to the UK, Clara. Give Canary Wharf my best.”
When I returned home that afternoon, the contractor was parked in the driveway. A large, bearded man in work boots was walking through my home office with Eric and Diane, taking measurements with a laser distance meter.
“Yeah, we can knock this wall down no problem,” the contractor said, tapping on the drywall between my office and the guest suite. “It’s non-load bearing. We’ll tear it out on Friday morning, frame out the new nursery closet by Monday, and have the custom baby shelving installed by next weekend.”
“Fantastic,” Eric beamed, puffing out his chest. “What’s the damage going to be?”
“Total estimate for demo, framing, custom trim, and premium paint is twenty-two thousand dollars,” the contractor said. “I’ll need a fifty percent deposit upfront before we start demo on Friday morning.”
Eric didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his leather checkbook—the one tied to our joint account—and waved it boldly. “I’ll write you a check for eleven thousand dollars right now, Mike. Friday morning at 8:00 AM, you bring your crew in and tear this wall down.”
“You got it, Mr. Miller,” the contractor said, grinning as he took the check.
I stood in the doorway, watching Eric sign his name with an arrogant flourish.
He had no idea that the check he just handed over would bounce into oblivion the moment the contractor tried to deposit it on Friday morning. Nor did he realize that at 8:00 AM on Friday, there would be no house for the contractor to remodel.
“Clara,” Eric commanded, turning to me with a smug look. “Make sure this room is completely cleared out by Thursday night. Put all your office junk in plastic bins in the garage. Mike’s crew needs clear access to the floorboards first thing Friday.”
“Don’t worry, Eric,” I said softly, looking him straight in the eyes. “Everything that belongs in this room will be completely gone by Friday morning. I promise you.”
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“Good,” Eric said, utterly oblivious to the double meaning of my words. “Now go help Mom bring in the groceries. She bought organic avocados for Madison.”
“Right away,” I said.
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