Sophie was silent for several seconds.
Then her voice became smaller.
—Claire, I understand the apartment, but the account…
—What about it?
—I have expenses.
I almost laughed.
—So do I.
—But Adrian said—
—Then ask Adrian.
She stopped speaking.
For three years, Sophie had mastered the art of appearing helpless without ever directly demanding anything.
She never said:
Give me money.
She said:
“I don’t know how I’ll manage this month.”
She never said:
Give me Claire’s apartment.
She said:
“I’m afraid to live somewhere unsafe.”
And Adrian always translated for her.
Until my money became the solution.
—Claire —she whispered—, are you angry because of yesterday?
—No.
That was the truth.
Anger would have meant I still expected something from them.
—I simply realized I’ve been paying for a lifestyle that has nothing to do with me.
Then I hung up.
That afternoon, my assistant returned from Lanting Residence with an inventory.
Several items had disappeared.
Two handbags.
A watch.
A set of imported tableware.
And a painting my father had bought for me when I opened my first boutique.
I sent Sophie one message:
Please return all property registered in my name within forty-eight hours. Anything missing afterward will be handled legally.
She did not answer.
Adrian did.
That same night, his car blocked mine in front of our garage.
He got out before I could even open the door.
—What exactly are you trying to do?
I lowered the window.
—Go home.
—Don’t play games with me.
He walked to my side.
—Sophie called me crying. She can’t enter the apartment. Her payment account is gone. Your assistant took half the furniture.
—My furniture.
—She has lived there for three years!
—Exactly.
His voice rose.
—She is alone in this city! How far do you plan to corner her?
I opened my handbag.
Took out the bank card where Adrian’s salary was deposited.
And slapped it against his chest.
He caught it instinctively.
—If you’re so worried, keep it.
He frowned.
I looked directly at him.
—But from today onward, stop using my money to love another woman.
His expression changed.
—What does that mean?
—It means Sophie’s expenses were never paid from your salary.
Silence.
—What?
I opened my banking app.
Three years of transactions.
I showed him the linked account.
Primary source:
CLAIRE JIANG — PERSONAL ACCOUNT.
Adrian stared.
Then swiped.
Month after month.
Food.
Clothes.
Transportation.
Spa memberships.
Online shopping.
Luxury cosmetics.
Household expenses.
His face became darker with every line.
—Why was this linked to your account?
I almost admired the question.
—Because you asked me to set it up.
—Temporarily.
—Yes.
I smiled.
—Apparently Sophie and I have very different definitions of temporary.
He looked at the total.
His lips parted.
—More than four hundred thousand?
—Without calculating the apartment.
Or the utilities.
Or the items she “borrowed.”
Adrian went silent.
Then he said:
—I’ll repay you.
That was when I understood he still didn’t understand.
—This isn’t about four hundred thousand yuan.
—Then what is it about?
—Permission.
I stepped out of the car.
—You decided my apartment could become her home because I “wasn’t using it.”
—You decided my account could support her because I had enough money.
—You decided my things could become hers because I rarely complained.
I looked at him.
—You never asked whether I agreed.
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
—You always said it was fine.
—Because every time I objected, you called me jealous.
He had no answer.
The next day, Sophie appeared at my boutique.
She wore my Max Mara coat.
Of course.
She placed two bags on the counter.
—Your things.
I looked inside.
Not everything.
—The watch?
She stiffened.
—I don’t know what watch you mean.
I handed my assistant a printed purchase record.
Serial number included.
Sophie’s face went pale.
—Claire, do we really need to make this so ugly?
I looked at her.
—Returning property that isn’t yours isn’t ugly.
Her eyes reddened.
—I thought we were friends.
—We were never friends.
That hurt her.
Good.
She lowered her voice.
—You’re doing this because Adrian cares about me.
—No.
I leaned back.
—I’m doing this because I finally care about myself enough to stop financing it.
She left.
The watch arrived by courier that evening.
Three days later, something even more interesting happened.
Sophie moved out.
Not because she suddenly developed pride.
Because Adrian refused to pay the apartment’s market rent himself.
He earned well.
But not enough to maintain the lifestyle Sophie had enjoyed through me.
The private driver disappeared.
The imported groceries disappeared.
The shopping account disappeared.
So did many of Sophie’s smiles.
Two weeks later, Adrian came home early.
He sat across from me at the dining table.
—Sophie says you’re trying to humiliate her.
I continued reading.
—Then Sophie should stop making her life dependent on things I own.
He was quiet.
Then:
—She asked me to rent her another apartment.
I looked up.
—Did you?
—No.
That surprised me.
He rubbed his forehead.
—She said if I really cared about her, I wouldn’t make her lose the life she had.
I laughed softly.
Finally.
The bill had reached the correct person.
Adrian looked uncomfortable.
—Claire… did I really ask that much from you?
—Yes.
The answer landed harder than anger would have.
He stared at the table.
—Why didn’t you tell me?
—Because I was stupid enough to think a husband would eventually notice when his wife was being used.
He closed his eyes.
Three years of marriage ended quietly after that.
I filed for divorce the following month.
Adrian opposed it at first.
Then he tried apologies.
Then therapy.
Then promises.
He even removed Sophie from his life entirely.
But none of it changed the part that mattered.
For three years, he had watched another woman occupy my apartment, spend my money, wear my clothes and demand my consideration.
And he had called my discomfort jealousy.
The divorce became final six months later.
Sophie disappeared from our social circle soon afterward.
Without Adrian’s protection and my money, her “independent life” turned out to be remarkably expensive.
Adrian returned the four hundred thousand.
Every cent.
I accepted it.
Not as compensation.
As accounting.
A year later, I renovated the Lanting apartment.
New furniture.
New locks.
New artwork.
I kept only one thing from before.
The old key.
I framed it and placed it inside a drawer.
Not because I missed that life.
Because it reminded me of something.
People thought I destroyed my marriage when I changed one lock and canceled one account.
They were wrong.
The marriage had been breaking for years.
I simply stopped paying the maintenance costs.
