I heard my wife give my PIN to her mother, thinking I was asleep. Take it all. Every single dollar. Over $120,000. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t move. I didn’t even open my eyes. I just smiled in the darkness; that kind of smile that isn’t worn on your face, but felt in your chest, cold and firm, like when something finally falls into place. Forty minutes later, his phone vibrated. He knows everything. Something’s going on. And then he went completely silent.
I heard my wife give my PIN to her mother through the bathroom door at 1:47 am and felt something cold settle on my chest.
“That’s the main card. The blue one in her wallet. Cascade Federal Credit Union,” Lydia whispered.
“Are you sure he’s asleep?” asked Constance Harding, the same woman who smiled at our wedding wearing a $4,000 Armani suit she had forced her daughter to buy for her.
—He’s sound asleep. I added more sedative to his tea. He won’t wake up until nine.
I hadn’t done it. I had seen her crush the pills and mix them into the tea. I poured it down the sink as soon as she left the bedroom. Then I went back, got into bed, and waited.
“How much can I withdraw?” Constance asked.
—Everything. $127,340 . That’s what the app showed this morning when I checked his phone.
My grandfather’s legacy. Henry Chen , who died eight months ago, after 93 years building a small “dynasty” of dry cleaners in Portland. He left everything to me: his only grandson, the one who had visited him every Sunday for the past twenty-two years.
“Jesus Christ, Lydia… that’s real money,” Constance said.
—I know, Mom. Why do you think I married him?
It hit me like a fist in the sternum.
—What do I tell the bank if they ask?
—He sent you. Family emergency. Medical bills. Be safe. They never question safe people.
—What if something goes wrong?
“Nothing’s going to go wrong. Take it all out before he transfers or freezes the accounts in the morning. We’ll split it. You get sixty, I get sixty-seven. It’s fair, because I’m the one taking the risk of staying married to him a little longer.”
-How long?
Lydia laughed, low and cruel.
—Three months. Maybe. Enough so the divorce doesn’t look suspicious.
“I already spoke with Mitchell Vance, the lawyer on Third Street,” she added. “Oregon is ‘no fault.’ I file the lawsuit, the assets are divided, I walk away clean with half of everything… plus my half of the inheritance that ‘conveniently’ disappears.”
—You’re brilliant.
—I learned from the best.
They hung up.
I listened to my wife of four years brush her teeth as if she were planning a surprise party, not a major robbery and divorce. She got into bed at 2:03 a.m., kissed my shoulder, and whispered:
—I love you, Kieran.
I kept my breathing steady. Asleep. Dreaming.
Inside, he was calculating.
Six weeks earlier she had started to notice things: coffee in bed on any given Tuesday, that bright smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“You work so much ,” she said. “Let me take care of you.”
At first, I was touched. I thought we were finally entering that comfortable rhythm I’d always wanted in marriage.
Then the questions began.
—Hey, love, how much is your savings account in right now? Just curious.
—Do you have any deposits or bonds that I’m unaware of due to taxes?
—Your grandfather’s money… is in the checking account, right? Or did you invest any of it?
I answered vaguely. Something felt wrong, but I couldn’t name it.
And then Constance started showing up. She never liked me. The first day she asked me what my “career plans” were. And I, happily, said that I managed the bookstore my other grandfather had left me. She repeated “a bookstore?” as if I had said “a meth lab.”
But after my grandfather Henry died and the money came into my account, suddenly Constance was there all the time: with stews, asking about my health, mentioning her “small pension” while eyeing my new watch — a $300 Seiko — as if it were a provocation.
“It must be nice to be able to treat yourself to luxuries,” he said.
The stews were awful. Too much salt. Burnt edges. As if I’d never cooked for someone who actually cared.
Three weeks ago I came home early from the bookstore with a migraine and found them in the kitchen. Low voices. I stopped in the hallway, and something told me to keep quiet.
“He’s not going to hand it over just like that,” Lydia said. “Kieran is strangely attached to that money. He talks about ‘honoring the legacy’ of his grandfather Henry.” She said it mockingly, as if my grandfather were a joke.
“Then take it from him without asking,” Constance replied coldly. “You’re his wife. You have access to everything. Get the PIN.”
—I’ll make the withdrawal. We’ll split it. You tell him it was hackers, identity theft, whatever.
—What if he finds out?
“He won’t. Men like Kieran don’t notice. He’s too busy with his little books and his little life.”
I withdrew quietly. I walked around the block three times until my hands stopped shaking.
Then I went to the bank.
I sat down opposite Yolanda Reeves. Twenty-three years in banking. Sharp eyes behind thin-framed glasses.
“I need to protect my accounts,” I told him. “I think someone will try to access them fraudulently.”
“Your wife?” he asked.
I blinked.
-As…?
“I’ve been doing this for a long time,” Yolanda said. “When someone comes in nervous and says they need to protect their money from fraud, it’s almost always a spouse or a family member.”
He leaned towards me.
—What’s going on?
I told her about the inheritance, Lydia’s sudden interest, what I overheard in the kitchen. Yolanda nodded slowly.
—This is what we’re going to do.
He helped me open a new account, transferred the $127,340. New card, new PIN, separate from anything Lydia would have seen.
“And the old account?” I asked.
—We’ll leave it active. With a minimum balance, let’s say $50. If someone tries to withdraw a large sum, the system will flag it and freeze the transaction.
—And extra security?
—Any withdrawal over $100 will require manager approval and photo ID verification. If someone other than you tries to access your account, we’ll know within seconds.
And she smiled. Not in a friendly way. Professionally.
—And if they insist… we will have video, records, hours and enough evidence to prosecute.
—Would you do that for me?
“I knew his grandfather, Henry,” he said. “He came every Thursday for forty years. He never missed a day. If anyone is trying to steal his legacy, I’ll make sure they regret it.”
I left the bank with a new card, a new remote, and a plan.
But he needed more than bank security: he needed legal protection.
Mitchell Vance , the same lawyer Lydia had spoken to about the divorce.
I walked into his office four days earlier, with my best poker face.
“Mr. Chen,” he said, standing up and offering me his hand. “How can I help you?”
—My wife came to see him recently.
Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes.
—I can neither confirm nor deny…
—She told me yes. She said you advised her: no-fault divorce, division of assets…
Keeping your voice calm:
—I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I’m here because I need my own lawyer.
Vance sat down slowly.
-I understand.
—Can you recommend someone? Because of conflicts of interest and all that.
He remained silent. Then he said:
“Mr. Chen, I’ll be honest with you. Your wife did consult me. And what she described—her timeline, her expectations—seemed potentially fraudulent to me.”
-As?
She mentioned that a significant sum of money could “disappear” before she filed the lawsuit. She seemed to believe that would work in her favor. I told her that deliberately concealing or stealing marital property is illegal and can result in criminal charges.
My chest tightened.
—And what did she say?
—She thanked me and left. I declined to represent her.
-Because?
—Because I don’t help people commit crimes.
He took out a card.
— Denise Park . She handles divorce cases involving suspected financial misconduct, as well as white-collar crimes. Tell her you’re calling on my behalf. And tell her everything.
Denise Park had fifteen years of experience in complex divorces and financial crimes. Office in the Pearl District. Shark-like gaze. Grip capable of splitting concrete.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
I told him everything: inheritance, conversations, Constance, Lydia.
—Do you have proof? Recordings?
-Better.
I took out my phone and played the audio from two weeks ago. I started recording every conversation with Lydia after the kitchen incident. Legally debatable in Oregon—two-party consent is a requirement—but Denise said we’d look at the admissibility later.
In the recording, Lydia was clear:
—Once we get the money, we’ll wait a few months and file the lawsuit. He’ll never see it coming.
Denise smiled. Not warmly. Predatory.
—This is good. Very good.
-What I do?
—You let them try.
I just stared.
-That?
“Let them try to steal. Let your mother-in-law make the withdrawal. With the bank’s security, she won’t succeed, but they’ll incriminate themselves. Video, records, staff testimony… Then we’ll file charges.”
—Charges against my wife?
Denise didn’t blink.
—Kieran, your wife plans to steal over $100,000 from you and then divorce you. She’s not your wife anymore. She’s a criminal with a marriage license.
That came as a complete shock.
—What positions?
—Attempted grand theft. Conspiracy to commit fraud. And if Constance is deeply involved, it could escalate. Also, financial abuse stemming from a recent inheritance is taken seriously.
He leaned towards me.
—And here’s the best part: as soon as they try to steal, you have grounds for an immediate divorce. You keep everything. She gets nothing. And if we play our cards right, she could face jail time.
“I don’t want to see her in jail. I just want her to disappear.”
—So we use the threat of charges as leverage: either they give up all claims to your assets and disappear… or they face serious criminal charges. Almost everyone chooses the former.
So I waited.
It was 2:47 am. I was lying next to a woman who had “drugged” my tea, given my bank details to her mother, and admitted that she married me for money.
Forty minutes until Constance arrived at the bank.
My phone was on silent, but I could feel its vibrations inside the nightstand drawer. It was probably Yolanda confirming the trap was set. Yesterday I went to the branch and told her it would probably happen tonight. Yolanda added extra security and alerted a fraud detective.
Cameras were rolling. Police were nearby. It was no longer just about preventing a robbery.
It was about tests . Evidence . Justice .
At 2:51 a.m., Lydia checked her phone. Constance should be arriving soon. The main branch had a 24-hour teller in the lobby. She would try there: less supervision than a teller window.
But Yolanda made sure the ATM had additional cameras and security flags.
As soon as Constance inserted my old card, silent alarms would go off. Alarms that bring police, not noise.
I kept my breathing steady.
Lydia received a message.
The screen illuminated his face.
I’m at the ATM. Trying now.
Lydia replied:
Be quick.
Silence.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
Her leg bounced. She felt the mattress vibrate.
Two minutes.
The phone vibrated.
Lydia grabbed it so fast she almost dropped it.
Card declined. It says account frozen. What’s going on?
Lydia’s hand began to tremble.
Another vibration.
A security guard approaches. Why is he asking me for ID?
Lydia wrote frantically:
Go away. Leave now.
Another vibration.
He’s calling someone. Kieran… something’s wrong. He knows it. He knows it.
I watched as the color drained from Lydia’s face under the glare of the phone.
Another vibration.
The police are here. They’re asking about attempted fraud. They have cameras. Oh my God, Lydia… what did you do?
Lydia’s breathing was irregular. Panic.
Another vibration.
They’re arresting me. They’re handcuffing me. Fix it. Call him. Wake him up. Fix it now.
And then… nothing.
Silence.
Lydia froze, phone in hand, staring at the screen as if a miracle were about to appear.
I counted to ten.
Then I opened my eyes.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, my voice calm.
Lydia jumped as if she were about to fall out of bed.
“Kieran…” Her voice was too loud, too fake. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry… I just…”
“I know what your mother wrote to you,” I said.
She froze.
—I know because I’ve been awake this whole time, listening to you planning a major heist while you thought I was high.
—I don’t know what about…
— 4723. That’s the PIN you gave me for my old card. The one that accesses an account with $50 .
Lydia’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again.
—And the “sedative” you put in my tea… I saw you crush it. I saw you mix it. And then I poured it down the sink while you were brushing your teeth.
—Kieran, please… I can explain.
—Can you explain why you married me? Was it always for money, or did you at least like me at first?
Tears streamed down her face. Real… or pure fear.
—I loved you.
“No,” I said, sitting up. “You loved the idea of me: stable, predictable, easy to manipulate. And when Grandpa Henry died and left me money, you saw an opportunity.”
—That’s not…
—Your mother is being arrested right now. At Cascade Federal, the detective has her in custody. She’s on camera trying to access my account with fraudulent authorization. That’s attempted grand theft: a felony.
Lydia’s phone started ringing.
Unknown number.
“It’s probably the police,” I said, “calling to tell you your mother’s been arrested and you need to come in for questioning. Conspiracy to commit fraud is also a crime, Lydia. And I have recordings of you planning it.”
She was trembling.
—You can’t record me without my consent. Oregon is in two parts…
—I know. Denise Park, my lawyer, explained that it might not be valid for a criminal trial, but it will be for the divorce, which I’m going to file tomorrow morning. Well… this morning. It’s past midnight.
The phone kept ringing.
“Answer,” I said. “On speakerphone.”
Lydia answered with trembling hands.
“Ms. Harding Chen,” a professional voice said. “I’m Detective Jessica Reynolds with the Portland Police Department. Your mother, Constance Harding, is in custody for attempted grand theft. We need you to come to the central station to answer some questions about your possible involvement.”
—I didn’t do anything…
—Ma’am, we have text messages between you and your mother from tonight discussing account access, PINs, and financial theft. We want to hear your side of the story.
Lydia looked at me, desperate. I stared at her blankly.
“I’ll be there,” he whispered.
—We’re waiting for you.
The detective hung up.
Silence.
—Kieran, please…
Lydia was crying openly.
—It was my mom’s idea. She convinced me. She said you didn’t deserve Grandpa Henry’s money because “you weren’t that close to him.”
—I’ve been visiting him every Sunday for twenty-two years —I said.
—I know… I know… I’m sorry. I was foolish. I was weak. But I love you… we can fix this.
“No,” I said. “You drugged my tea. You gave your mother my bank information with instructions to steal everything. You admitted you married me for money and that you planned to divorce me after covering up the theft. You don’t love me. You never did.”
I got up and started getting dressed.
“Where are you going?” she asked, panicked.
—Anywhere you’re not.
I grabbed my wallet, my keys, my phone.
—You can’t leave like this.
—Look at me.
I reached the bedroom door, stopped, and turned around.
—You and your mother have two options. One: Denise Park drafts the divorce papers. You sign them, you waive all claims to my assets, my inheritance, everything. You disappear from my life. In exchange, I won’t press charges and you’ll avoid jail.
—And option two?
—I’m filing charges for conspiracy to commit grand theft. You and Constance face a felony, a criminal record, possible prison time, and I’m also divorcing you… and you still won’t get a penny.
Lydia was trembling so much that she could barely stand.
—You have until 9:00 am today to decide. Denise will send you the papers at dawn. Sign… or face the consequences.
I left.
Behind me, Lydia collapsed onto the bed sobbing. I didn’t look back.
The central police station at 3:47 am was fluorescent, cold… and exactly what I needed.
Detective Marcus Okoy greeted me in the lobby.
—Mr. Chen. What a night. How is Constance in the dungeon?
—Shouting about a false arrest and police harassment. The usual.
He took me to a room.
—We have it. Video of her trying to access her account. Messages with her wife planning the theft. Her own “explanation.” The bank manager confirmed that you explicitly requested the account be flagged for fraud.
—Will he go to jail?
—It depends on the prosecutor. With the amount involved, more than 100,000, it will probably be first-degree theft. Up to five years in prison and a fine.
I felt nothing. Just cold clarity.
—And Lydia?
—More complicated. We have the messages that show conspiracy, but a lawyer could argue that she wasn’t present during the physical attempt. Although…
He took out a folder.
Detective Reynolds is interviewing her now. If she confesses to the plan, we can charge her as well.
“I don’t want to see her in prison. I just want her to disappear.”
Okoy nodded.
—Denise Park said that. That you’d be willing not to pursue charges in exchange for a clean divorce. That’s smart. Dirty, but smart. I’ll let the prosecutor know you won’t be prosecuting them if they cooperate.
They knocked on the door.
Detective Reynolds entered.
—Mr. Chen, your wife wants to speak with you.
-I don’t want to.
“She’s ready to confess everything, but she wants to do it with you present. She says she owes you that.”
I looked at Okoy. He shrugged.
—Your decision.
Room B was smaller. Gray walls. Metal table. Lydia was sitting with smudged mascara and her hands cuffed to a ring on the table. She looked at me as I came in.
I sat down across from her. I didn’t say anything.
Detective Reynolds turned on the tape recorder.
—This interview took place at 4:12 a.m. on October 3, 2024. Present: Lydia Harding Chen, Detective Jessica Reynolds, Detective Marcus Okoy, and Kieran Chen. Ms. Harding Chen waived her right to counsel and agreed to testify.
Lydia swallowed.
—I planned it. The robbery with my mother. We planned it for six weeks.
“Since when?” Reynolds asked.
“Ever since Kieran’s grandfather died and left him money, my mom said it was stupid to leave it there. She said Kieran was too soft to use it wisely. She said we should take it and invest it ourselves.”
—How did you plan it?
—I was supposed to get the PIN, the account information. My mom would make the withdrawal at night when he was asleep. We would split it. Then I would get divorced in a few months so it would seem unrelated.
—Did Mr. Chen know about the plan?
—No. I drugged her tea tonight so she wouldn’t wake up while my mother was at the bank.
—What did he use?
—“Ambient”. Two crushed tablets in chamomile tea.
I heard her confess to crimes I had witnessed but still found hard to believe. That was the woman I married. The woman I thought I would grow old with.
“Why?” I asked in a low voice.
Lydia looked at me.
—Because I needed the money. Because my mom needed the money. Because you were never going to…
“I would have given you money if you had asked me for something real, something important,” I said.
“Yes, I did ask. You said we should save, invest, be responsible,” she laughed bitterly. “I didn’t want to be responsible, Kieran. I wanted to live.”
—So you decided to rob me?
-Yeah.
The word remained suspended between us.
“Anything else you’d like to say?” Reynolds asked.
“I’m sorry,” Lydia whispered. “I know it doesn’t matter… I know you’ll never forgive me, but I’m sorry.”
I stood up.
—Sign the divorce papers. Waive all claims. Disappear. That’s the only way to “fix” it.
Lydia looked up.
—And if I do that… you won’t press charges?
I looked at the detective.
“If you fully cooperate, if you sign the documents my lawyer sends and disappear from my life, I will not press charges. Nor will the bank.”
Reynolds nodded.
—We’ll make a note of it for the prosecutor.
—But your mother faces separate charges, Mrs. Harding Chen. That’s not up to Mr. Chen.
“My mom can handle it,” Lydia said, subdued. “She always does.”
I left without looking back.
At 9:47 am , I was in Denise Park’s office while she was reviewing documents on her laptop.
—Lydia signed—he said—. She waives all claims. Clean divorce. The assets stay with you. No alimony, no division.
—¿Y Constance?
—Charged with first-degree theft. Posted bail two hours ago. Trial in January. Will she go to prison? Maybe. It depends on her lawyer and whether she accepts a plea deal, but she’s already got the attempted grand theft charge permanently on her record. She won’t pass a background check again.
I nodded. I felt nothing.
“How are you?” Denise asked.
-Don’t know.
—It’s normal. You blew up your marriage in one night.
—It wasn’t a marriage. It was a scam.
Denise closed the laptop.
“You did the right thing, Kieran: you protected yourself, you protected your grandfather’s legacy. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
—I thought he loved me.
—Maybe a part of her… but love doesn’t drug someone’s tea or steal their inheritance.
I let out a hollow laugh.
—No. I suppose not.
Three months later, the divorce was final. Lydia moved back in with Constance, who agreed to a settlement: eighteen months of probation, five hundred hours of community service, and full reimbursement of my legal fees. I never saw either of them again.
The bookstore continued operating. I hired a new assistant, a student named River, a Tolkien fanatic and capable of making perfect coffee.
My apartment felt bigger without Lydia’s things. Emptier… better.
I visited Grandpa Henry’s grave every Sunday. I told him about money, about protecting his legacy, about learning the difference between love and acting.
“You would have seen it coming ,” I said to the gravestone. ” You always saw right through people.”
The wind moved the chrysanthemums I brought him, his favorites.
On my way home, my phone vibrated. A message from Yolanda:
I saw that the divorce is finalized. How are you doing?
I replied:
Better than I expected.
She replied:
Your grandfather would be proud. You protected what he built.
Thank you for helping me , I wrote.
Whenever. Although I hope there isn’t a “next time ,” he replied.
Me too.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I lay staring at the ceiling in my bed—no longer “ours”—and thought about Lydia’s last words before signing.
—I truly loved you. At the beginning. Before the money… when we were just two people laughing at the same movies.
“I loved that version of us too,” I told him. “So why destroy it?”
—Because I loved money more.
At least in the end she was honest.
I turned toward the empty space where she used to sleep, and I felt nothing. And I understood that nothing was exactly what she deserved to leave me. Because the woman I married never existed. She was a character Lydia played until the inheritance gave her a reason to take off the mask.
I fell asleep around 3:00 am and dreamed about Grandpa Henry. He was in his old dry cleaner’s, ironing shirts as he had done for seventy years.
“You did the right thing, Kieran,” she said without looking up. “You protected the family. That’s what matters.”
—I lost my wife.
—You lost a thief who was pretending to be your wife. Big difference.
—It doesn’t feel any different.
—You’ll feel it. Time reveals the truth. Sometimes slowly, sometimes suddenly… in the middle of the night, when someone tries to rob you.
He hung up the perfect shirt.
—In any case, the truth wins.
I woke up at 6:47 am. I checked my phone. An email from Denise:
Final divorce decree attached. You’re officially single. Congratulations or condolences, depending on how you look at it.
I saw it as freedom.
I made coffee. Real coffee. Not the expensive organic stuff Lydia kept insisting on buying.
I sat at my table—my table—and watched the sun rise over Portland. I remembered Grandpa Henry’s last words before he died, squeezing my hand in the hospital bed:
“Money shows you who people really are. Some grow. Others shrink. See what happens when they know you have it. Then you’ll know the truth.”
He was right.
Lydia shrank back. Constance showed her true colors. And I learned that love without integrity isn’t love: it’s acting.
I finished my coffee, went to work, and opened the bookstore at 9:00 am, as usual. River was already there organizing the new arrivals.
—Good morning, boss. How did the divorce go?
—Clean. Done. Finished.
—You deserve better than someone who drugs your tea.
—Yes… that’s true.
And for the first time in three months, I believed it.
Because the money was safe. The legacy was protected. And the woman who tried to steal both… was gone.
Exactly where it was meant to be.
