Nobody in the public knew that she was the secret architect behind Wesley’s most successful contracts and his most brilliant marketing campaigns. To the rest of the world, she was nothing more than a bitter ex-wife who had been discarded for a newer, better model.
By the end of the third week, her small pile of cash was dwindling at a terrifying speed that left her stomach in constant knots. She lived on packets of instant noodles and washed her few items of clothing in the motel sink, hanging them over the shower rod to dry.
She tried calling Toby’s school every single day from different borrowed numbers, but the administration always gave her the same cold response. Wesley had provided the school with a legal injunction claiming that Cassie was mentally unstable and should not be allowed to speak to the boy until a formal evaluation was completed.
One Tuesday evening, as a violent thunderstorm rattled the loose window frames of her motel room, her cheap phone began to vibrate on the bedside table. The caller ID showed a long string of numbers that indicated the call was originating from somewhere deep within Europe.