During breakfast, my husband threw scalding hot coffee in my face because I refused to give my bank card to his sister

Derek approached the glass table slowly, as if the papers resting there were a live explosive.

His mind struggled to process the emptiness of the room. The espresso machine was gone. The decorative throws were missing. Even the faint, familiar scent of Skylar’s vanilla perfume seemed to have been violently vacuumed from the air.

He picked up the stapled papers. His eyes darted across the bold, black text.

Miami-Dade Police Department. Incident Report. Victim: Skylar Vance. Suspect: Derek Vance. Charge: Aggravated Battery / Domestic Violence.

"What is that?" Suzanne asked, stepping forward, her face scrunched in annoyance rather than concern. "Did that dramatic bitch actually call the cops because you spilled some coffee?"

"Shut up, Suzanne," Derek snapped, his voice trembling for the first time in years.

He flipped to the second page, reading the summary of the medical report. Second-degree burns. Severe blistering. Suspect threw scalding liquid intentionally.

He dropped the papers as if they burned his own fingers. Panic, sharp and metallic, flooded his veins. He pulled out his phone and dialed Skylar's number. It went straight to voicemail. He dialed again. Blocked. He opened WhatsApp. Blocked. He checked his banking app, only to find that his access to their joint savings account—which Skylar solely funded—had been revoked entirely. The balance showed zero.

"Derek, seriously, I need that card," Suzanne whined, oblivious to the catastrophic collapse happening in front of her. "The boutique is holding a purse for me until eight, and if I don't pay—"

"Are you deaf?!" Derek roared, turning on his sister with a ferocity that made her jump backward. "She left! She went to the police! She took the money!"

Suzanne blinked, her superficial worldview struggling to catch up. "So? Tell her to come back. You’re her husband. She has to do what you say."

Before Derek could explain the monumental stupidity of her statement, a heavy, authoritative knock rattled the front door.

Derek froze. His heart hammered against his ribs. He approached the door and peered through the peephole. Standing in the hallway were two police officers—different from the ones who had escorted Skylar earlier.

He opened the door a fraction of an inch. "Yes, officers?"

"Derek Vance?" the older officer asked, his hand resting casually but firmly near his duty belt.

"Yes, that's me."

"Sir, we need you to step out into the hallway. We have a warrant for your arrest on charges of aggravated domestic assault. Turn around and place your hands behind your back."

"Arrest?!" Suzanne shrieked from the kitchen. "You can't arrest him! Who is going to pay for my nail course?!"

Derek tried to slam the door, but the officer’s heavy boot was already wedged in the frame. Within seconds, the door was pushed open, and Derek found himself shoved against the hallway wall, the cold, humiliating click of metal handcuffs locking tightly around his wrists.

"This is a misunderstanding!" Derek pleaded, his charming facade completely shattering, revealing the cowardly boy underneath. "She tripped! The coffee spilled! She's hysterical!"

"Tell it to the judge, buddy," the officer said dryly, leading him toward the elevator.

As they walked away, a young man in a sharp grey suit stepped out of the adjacent stairwell. He walked past the officers and approached the open door of the apartment, where Suzanne stood paralyzed in shock.

"Excuse me," the man said, pulling a legal document from his briefcase. "Are you Suzanne Vance?"

"Yes?" she stammered.

"I'm representing Skylar Vance. This is a formal eviction notice. As my client is the sole legal owner of this property, and due to a newly issued restraining order against your brother, you have exactly twenty-four hours to vacate these premises. If you are still here tomorrow at seven PM, you will be arrested for trespassing."