Based on the cliffhanger in the image, here is a full conclusion to the story:
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO WITH OUR MONEY?!”
I stared at the screen, a cold satisfaction settling in my chest. I took a slow sip of coffee before typing my reply.
“Civil issue,” I texted back. “Joint account. Either of us can access 100% of the funds. Remember?”
My phone immediately lit up with a call. I let it ring. Then another text: “I’m calling the police! You stole $15,000!”
I replied calmly. “I didn’t steal anything. I moved our joint funds to a secure location to protect my assets during a breakup. The police will tell you the exact same thing they told me about Max: take it to civil court. Good luck with the legal fees. I hear lawyers are expensive.”
Silence for five minutes. She knew I had her. She was obsessed with her image and her bank account, and she needed that cash for the deposit on the new apartment she was moving into with her ex. Max was just a prop to her; the money was her lifeline.
“What do you want?” she finally texted.
“I want my dog. Bring him to the park entrance in 30 minutes. If he is unharmed, I will transfer the money back. If he has so much as a scratch, or if you’re a minute late, I donate every cent to the local kill-shelter rescue fund in your name. They’ll love the tax write-off. I won’t.”
Twenty-eight minutes later, her car screeched into the parking lot. She looked furious, her perfectly curated Instagram makeup smeared. But there, in the back seat, was Max.
As soon as I opened her car door, Max nearly tackled me. He was whining, licking my face, his tail wagging so hard his whole body shook. He knew. He knew I’d come for him.
“Give me the money,” Camille spat, holding out her phone. “Transfer it now.”
I clipped the leash onto Max’s collar and walked him over to my truck, lifting him into the passenger seat and locking the door. Only then did I turn back to her.
I pulled out my phone and tapped the banking app. “Done,” I said.
She checked her balance and gasped. “You’re short five hundred dollars!”
“That’s the re-homing fee,” I said, climbing into my truck. “And the cost of changing the locks on my house. Consider it a stupidity tax for thinking you could steal my dog.”
“I’m going to tell everyone you’re a thief!” she screamed as I started the engine.
I rolled down the window, looking at Max, who was already resting his head on my console, safe and sound.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Post it on Instagram. Tell them you traded a dog you hated for cash. See how many likes that gets you.”
I drove away without looking back. I was down five hundred bucks and a girlfriend, but looking at Max grinning in the passenger seat, I knew I was the richest man in the world.
