At our engagement dinner, my father-in-law tore up a check for $5,000 and threw the confetti in my face. “That’s a payoff,” he barked. “Take it and leave my son.” I didn’t scream. I simply opened my banking app and showed him the screen. “I don’t need your money, Arthur,” I smiled. “In fact, I just bought the bank that holds all your business loans. And I’m calling them in tomorrow.”

“Yes,” I said. I didn’t mention that I graduated summa cum laude in Computer Science at 19.

“Exactly,” Arthur smiled, a predator showing his teeth. “You’re a tourist in this world, Sophia. And tourists eventually run out of money and go home.”

He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and signaled for the waiter to leave the room. The heavy oak doors clicked shut, sealing us in. The air suddenly felt very thin.

“I think we should stop pretending this is a celebration,” Arthur said, reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket. “Liam is infatuated. He thinks he wants to marry you. But I know what you really want.”

He pulled out a checkbook. It was leather-bound, embossed with gold initials.

“You want security,” Arthur said. “You want a ticket out of Cleveland. Well, I’m feeling generous tonight.”

I looked at Liam. He was pale, his hands gripping the tablecloth. “Dad, don’t do this.”

“Shut up, Liam!” Arthur barked. “I am saving you! You’re too weak to see she’s a leech!”

Arthur uncapped a gold fountain pen. The scratching sound it made on the paper was deafening in the silence.

“I have a business proposition for you, Sophia,” Arthur said, tearing the check from the book with a flourish. “And you are not allowed to refuse.”

Part 2: The Confetti Rain
Arthur held the check up to the light.

“Five thousand dollars,” he announced. “Cashable immediately.”

He placed it on the table, but he didn’t slide it toward me. He kept his hand on it.

“This is a severance package,” he sneered. “For your services as Liam’s girlfriend. It should cover your rent for a few months. Maybe buy you a new laptop so you can knit more sweaters.”

I stared at the check. Five thousand dollars. It was an insult so calculated, so petty, that it almost made me laugh.

“I don’t want your money, Arthur,” I said quietly.

“Of course you do!” Arthur laughed. “Everyone wants Sterling money. Don’t play the martyr. Just take it and leave. Break up with him tonight. Tell him you found someone else. Tell him you realized you’re not good enough. I don’t care what you say, just disappear.”

“No,” I said.

Arthur’s smile vanished. His face turned a dangerous shade of purple.