Meanwhile, an unexpected visitor walked into the boutique: Eric’s sister, Dana. She hesitated near the scarf display before approaching me.
“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly. “Eric told us you were cold, controlling. But after seeing his texts… Julia, we didn’t know what he’d become.”
I nodded, offering no comfort. Their guilt wasn’t mine to manage.
Sunday evening, more screenshots trickled through mutual acquaintances—Chloe complaining on social media about Eric’s spending habits, his constant anger, and the shock of discovering he had no usable credit. Apparently, they were stuck at a dingy motel near the airport. Not exactly Miami luxury.
By Monday’s emergency hearing, Eric arrived looking rumpled and exhausted. Gone were the flashy new clothes—he’d returned them for refunds, my lawyer guessed. Chloe waited outside the courtroom, arms crossed, already regretting every decision that brought her here.
Eric’s attorney attempted to argue that his withdrawal of our joint funds was “an emotional reaction.” My lawyer calmly slid printed screenshots across the table.
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