I stare at her blankly. “Frozen? There must be some mix-up. Maybe the machine’s acting up? That’s my account. I would know if it’s frozen.”
The receptionist’s expression remains stoic, as if she’s used to dealing with late-night guests having issues with their cards. “I’m afraid so, ma’am,” she says. “It’s showing as restricted.”
I feel frustration simmering beneath my skin. Whatever this is, it has Ryan’s name written all over it. Yet, at the back of my mind, I doubt. It might be a coincidence, because I can’t figure out any possible way Ryan could have done it, frozen this account without my approval. It’s a joint account. There’s a reason it’s called joint, because two people have to sign off on decisions involving the account. So yes, there has to be a reasonable explanation for this. There better be.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask.
Angela shifts uncomfortably, typing again, like maybe she’s hoping a magical solution will pop up on her screen. When it doesn’t, she looks back at me. “I’m really sorry about this. Would you like me to try again?”
I force myself to breathe. “No, that’s fine. I’ll handle it,” I say, pulling my phone from my purse. “Give me a minute.”
The glass screen lights up as I open my banking app, waiting for it to come up.
But the app’s icon keeps spinning, refusing to load. I can practically feel the receptionist’s discomfort, and my hands tighten around the phone. I tap again, harder this time, as if force might just get me what I need. Nothing. Then a message flashes across the screen: “Please contact customer service for assistance.”
“Unbelievable,” I say. I look up, forcing a tight smile in the receptionist’s direction as I step away, pretending like it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience. But inside, I’m boiling. First my card, now this? Today of all days? It’s like the god of shitstorms is out to get me today.
My finger jabs the call button, and I wait as the phone rings. Finally, a voice picks up.
“Thank you for calling Sky National Bank. This is Sara. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Sara,” I say. “I need some help with my account. My card’s declining, and the app says I need to contact customer service. There shouldn’t be any issues-I use this account every day.”
“Alright, ma’am,” she says in that painfully calm, overly friendly tone that customer service reps are trained to use. “I’ll need to verify your account details before we proceed. Can you provide the account number, as well as the name listed on the account?”
I recite the number, then my name. “Julie O’Brien. Actually, there are two names on the account, as it’s a joint account. Ryan O’Brien and Julie O’Brien.”
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Brien. One moment, please.” I can hear her typing, the distant clack of keys only adding to my irritation as I watch the receptionist at the counter occasionally glance my way, probably regretting not swapping shifts.
Finally, the woman on the line speaks again. “Mrs. O’Brien, it appears there’s a restriction on this account.”
“Yes, I’ve been told,” I say, forcing patience into my voice. “That’s why I’m calling. I need you to remove that restriction.”
“Well,” she says, “it looks like the restriction was placed by the primary account holder.”
“The what?”
“The primary account holder.”
I pause, feeling the words sink in. “There must be some mistake. It’s a joint account. There can’t be a primary account holder.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “It is a joint account, but in some cases, joint accounts are set up with a primary and secondary holder for security reasons.”
“And which am I? Primary or secondary?”
“You’re listed as the secondary holder, Mrs. O’Brien,” she says.
Secondary. The word digs under my skin, sharp and twisting. “And who, exactly, is the primary account holder?”
“That would be… Mr. Ryan O’Brien,” she says, hesitating just long enough for my stomach to sink.
Of course, Ryan. It can only be Ryan. Who else derives great joy in tearing my world apart? He had the gall to block me from my own money? “So, let me get this straight,” I say, clenching my jaw so hard I’m surprised my teeth don’t shatter. “I can’t access my own account because he decided I shouldn’t?”
She clears her throat. “In this type of joint account, yes, any major restriction can only be lifted by the primary account holder.”
“Why wasn’t I informed about this ridiculous setup?” I ask, my voice rising despite myself. I can feel the eyes of the receptionist and the concierge drifting in my direction, but I can’t bring myself to care. “I put all my savings in that account. Every last cent.” My voice trembles, and I’m sure she can hear it through the line.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. O’Brien,” she says, sounding appropriately apologetic, though I can tell it’s the kind of sympathy she’s likely learned to fake. “But to regain access, you’ll need to speak with Mr. O’Brien directly.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “The fucking bastard.”
“Excuse me?” she says.
I brush it off, shaking my head even though she can’t see it. “Nothing, Sara. Thanks for your help.” I end the call before she can say another word.
I slide my phone back into my bag, my fingers trembling. I glance back at the receptionist, who’s waiting with a tentative smile, and I manage a brittle smile of my own. “It seems,” I say, “I won’t be needing that room after all.”
She hesitates, offering a sympathetic nod. “I’m sorry, ma’am. If there’s anything else we can help you with-”
“I doubt it,” I say, turning on my heel and heading for the door. The hotel’s grandeur seems to mock me as I walk away, the glass chandeliers and polished floors all reminding me of the lifestyle Ryan’s stripped away from me. And now, with my account locked and my options dwindling, it’s like he’s reaching out from wherever he is, still pulling the strings on my life, still making sure I have nothing left. Nothing, except the bitter taste in my mouth and a smoldering anger that feels like it could burn the whole city down.
When I step outside, the cold air hits me. I’m alone in New York without a single Dollar I can access. All because several years ago, I fell in love with the wrong man, an absolute piece of shit.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the street with its flickering lights and blaring taxis, the city buzzing around me with no idea I’ve just hit rock bottom.
My hands are shaking, but not from the cold.
“He can’t get away with this,” I whisper to myself. That was my money, my life savings-my future. I was there for every long hour, every sacrifice, every drop of sweat, and he swoops in and locks me out of the one thing I have left. It’s a new level of cruelty, even for him.
I pull out my phone, pressing the screen so hard I almost crack it, my thumb hovering over his name in my contacts. Lord, help me; I’m ready to rain down hell on Ryan O’Brien.
But then I freeze.
This is what he wants. He wants me to call him, to admit defeat, to let him know I’m nothing without him, just as he said. He’s waiting, grinning wherever he is, imagining me calling and begging for scraps like a dog at his feet. And I’ll be damned if I give him that satisfaction.
With a deep breath, I pull my thumb away and lock the screen, burying the phone in my fist.
We’ll settle this in court, Ryan O’Brien.
I glance around the empty street, wondering who’s left to call-who’s left that I can turn to now that Ryan has shattered every piece of my life. My thumb hovers again, and I scroll through my contacts, names flying by in a blur. I stop when I see it: Luke.
It’s late. He’s the last person I should be calling, but he’s also the only one who’s ever shown up when I needed someone, no questions asked. I press “Call” and listen as it rings, each tone dragging out longer, echoing against the night. I’m about to hang up, cursing myself for even trying, when he picks up.
“Julie.” His voice is breathless, like he’s been running. “What’s wrong?”
I pause, my throat tight. “Sorry for calling so late. I’m… kind of in the middle of nowhere, stranded. And I don’t know what else to do.” A beat of silence follows before I say it. “Actually, Luke, I’m homeless.”