In our past life, I had promised Natalie two gold accessories every month. But my financial burden was heavy. To save money, I bought her real gold—but for myself, I bought high-quality fakes to keep up appearances.
The drawer had been full of that fake gold.
She claimed she didn't want my "bad karma" affecting her, yet she had broken into my home to loot me. The drawer was wiped clean. She hadn't left a single link.
The last shred of sentiment I held for her evaporated.
It was laughable.
I wondered what expression she would make when she discovered her "fortune" was worthless brass.
That night, a heavy fist pounded against my door. The frame shook with the force of the blows.
"Evan Dickerson! You dared to play me?"
The noise was deafening. Not wanting the neighbors to call the police, I yanked the door open.
Natalie lunged at me, grabbing my shirt. "You knew the gold was fake! Why didn't you tell me? Do you have any idea how humiliated I was at the pawnshop?"
I looked at her with icy indifference. "You broke into my home to steal, and you think you have the moral high ground?"
She stared at me in disbelief. Then she shoved me, her manicured nails digging into my chest.