Since then, the topic of money hadn’t come up between them—until this week.
On Saturday, Darius started taking an unusual interest in her purse.
At first it was subtle, little things like, “Your phone wasn’t ringing, was it? I thought I heard something.”
Then he rummaged around “looking for a charger,” claiming his charging cord was broken and he couldn’t find a replacement.
Kiana watched from the doorway as he quickly glanced at her wallet lying on the bedroom dresser.
On Sunday, he suggested they open a joint bank account.
“It’s easier that way,” he argued, his voice taking on that persuasive tone. “We can save together, spend together. We’re family, Kiki.”
Kiana stood at the bedroom mirror braiding her hair and looked at his reflection in the glass.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking sweet and caring—and lying.
Lying so badly it was almost awkward to watch.
“I’m fine with my own account,” she replied calmly. “I’m used to managing it myself.”
He frowned, his expression darkening.
“That’s silly. We’ve been together for so many years, and you still act like we’re strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger. I’m just used to managing my own money independently.”
He didn’t press the issue further, but he was moody and dark for the rest of the day.
Kiana thought, remembered, and analyzed everything carefully.
Five years ago, she’d married Darius almost by chance, almost by accident.
He’d been charming, easygoing, and he knew how to say exactly the right things at exactly the right time.
She’d been tired of being alone, tired of the questions and the pressure.
She was thirty-two, and everyone around her kept saying the same thing: “It’s time. It’s time. It’s time.”
So she’d given in to the expectations.
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