Closing a $10 million deal feels like standing on the summit of the world. I’d been chasing it for months—brutal negotiations, sleepless nights. The final agreement was signed at 7:42 p.m. I remember thinking, This is the moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life. I was right, just not for the reasons I expected.
I brought the physical contract and the “celebratory handoff” home—a symbolic leather duffel filled with placeholder cash. The client had a flair for the dramatic; he wanted me to feel the weight of it.
When I got home, exhausted but exhilarated, my wife, Ria, was waiting in silk pajamas, a wine glass in hand. She smiled as I set the bag down. “What’s that?”
I kissed her forehead. “A trophy. Ten million in proof. The deal’s done.”
Her eyes widened. “Is it real?”
“Technically,” I chuckled. “But it’s symbolic, all show. It’s packed with fake bills. The real money is in escrow, transferring Monday.”
She laughed with me, but her hands lingered on the bag. “You trust me with it?” she asked playfully.
I shrugged. “Why not? You’re my wife.”
“I’ll keep it in the closet tonight,” she said. “Just in case.”
I nodded, kissed her good night, and collapsed into sleep. When I woke up, she was gone. Her clothes were gone, her phones were disconnected, and the money bag was missing. On the kitchen counter, in place of her usual coffee mug, sat a single folded note.
