My husband put me out and kept all my assets just to hand them over to his mistress. All I have left is a worn-out debit card my father left me. I thought the balance was zero, but it ended up making the bank manager tremble with fear.

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The thick, humid heat of an Atlanta summer hit Zelica’s skin the moment she stepped out of the Uber. She had spent two weeks in a tiny, dusty town in Alabama, down in the sticks taking care of her mother, who had been critically ill. Now that her mother was stable, Zelica was returning home, longing for the comfort of her luxury penthouse and, of course, her husband, Quacy.

She dragged her small suitcase through the lobby of the Sovereign, one of the most prestigious apartment buildings in Buckhead, right in the heart of Atlanta’s wealth. A smile spread across her face when the elevator chimed on the 30th floor. She was exhausted but happy to be home.

The hallway was cool and quiet. She arrived in front of door 30A, her penthouse.

Zelica dug around in her purse and pulled out the key fob for the apartment. She tapped the card against the digital reader on the door.

Beep, beep.

A red light flashed. Access denied.

Zelica frowned. She tried again.

Beep, beep.

“That’s strange. Maybe the card got demagnetized,” she murmured.

She rang the doorbell twice. There was a moment of silence. Then footsteps could be heard inside, followed by the soft click of the lock turning from the inside.

The heavy door swung open.

There stood Quacy, her husband. But he wasn’t the Quacy she knew. The man’s eyes were cold. He was wearing a silk robe, and on his neck there was a fresh mark of bright red lipstick.

“Ah, you’re back already,” Quacy said. And it wasn’t a welcoming greeting.

Zelica’s heart seemed to stop beating.

“Quacy, why? Why isn’t my key working?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Because I changed the locks,” Quacy replied, still blocking the entrance.

From inside the apartment, the crystal-clear laughter of a woman rang out.

“Babe, who is it? If it’s a solicitor, tell them to kick rocks.”

A young and very beautiful woman, much younger than Zelica, appeared over Quacy’s shoulder.

Zelica recognized her instantly as Aniya, a local Instagram model who was gaining clout and who made Zelica’s stomach turn. Aniya was wearing Zelica’s silk robe, the very same robe Zelica had gifted herself for her wedding anniversary last year.

Aniya’s eyes swept over Zelica from top to bottom, judging her simple travel clothes, her tired face, and her worn-out suitcase.

“Oh,” Aniya said with a mocking smirk. “It’s not a solicitor. Turns out it’s the ex-wife.”

“Ex-wife? Qui? What is this?” Zelica whispered, feeling a stinging burn in her eyes. “Who is she? Why is she in our house? Why is she wearing my clothes?”

Quacy sighed as if Zelica were a trivial nuisance.

“Listen, Zelica, this is over. Better we talk downstairs. Don’t make a scene here.”

He didn’t even give her a chance to step inside. He stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him, leaving Aniya smiling smugly on the inside.

Quacy didn’t speak at all while they rode down in the elevator.

Zelica was petrified. Her brain wasn’t capable of processing what had just happened. The smell of Aniya’s perfume, an expensive scent that wasn’t to her taste at all, lingered faintly on Quacy’s robe.

The elevator chimed, opening into the busy lobby. It was evening rush hour. A few other residents looked at them with curiosity.

Quacy walked quickly toward a corner of the lobby, somewhat secluded, near a large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Peachtree Road. Zelica followed him like a robot.

“Quacy, explain this to me,” Zelica demanded. Her voice was barely audible.