He had the gall to smile at me as though he were doing me a favor on the day we signed the divorce papers. With the disdain he had so perfected, he hissed, “You should thank me for leaving without making a fuss.” I left without a house, a car, or even custody of my own child. However, it only took one phone call six months later for €350,000—exactly, down to the last euro—to arrive in my account.
Anaïs is my name. I was an accountant for a small business in Nanterre before my life fell apart, and I am 32 today. At the age of 27, I got to know Romain. He operated a number of smartphone accessories shops in Saint-Denis, Paris, and Courbevoie. I thought I had struck gold at the time—a charming, self-assured man who was older than me and always had nice things to say.
Convinced of his own significance, he informed me one evening:
— “You’ll see that you’ll be fulfilled if you marry me. Money-obsessed women never retain a man.
And as gullible as before, I longed to think that I would be exempt from his absurd rule.
I paused my profession to raise our son three years after we were married. Everything hinged on him from that moment. The Neuilly apartment? just in his name. The Audi he purchased before to our union? The same thing. Our accounts? Keep everything strictly apart. Nothing was considered common marital property, as if by magic.
The façade finally gave way one day, and I found out he was leading a double, triple, quadruple existence. A student in Clichy, a temp in Boulogne, an assistant in La Défense—the list appeared to go on forever. Anger ripped through me. But he remained frigid and unyielding:
— “Are you seeking a divorce? Excellent. However, both the car and the flat remain mine. Regarding custody, Anaïs, you have no idea. The child remains with me.
I went cold. The judge’s approval of each of his demands was merely a formality. Income significantly more than mine, assets obtained prior to marriage… As a result, I have a huge hole in my chest, two luggage, and some emergency savings.
Just to breathe, or rather to perish under my own weeping, I ran away to my parents’ house in Bordeaux. Up until the night my mother made me raise my head while her warm hands were on my cheeks, I cried every night:
“Look at me, my daughter.” He was never worth as much as you were. Will you allow him to continue crushing on you?
It seemed like an electric shock to hear that statement. A wake-up call.
In my own way, I resumed my studies. After completing a digital marketing training program, I got my first freelance jobs creating content and running small Facebook and Instagram campaigns for a boutique in Paris. Every euro I earned smelled like independence, but it wasn’t much.
Several months later, I reconnected with Camille, a former classmate who was now a prominent person in Lyon’s computer industry. She exposed me to a network of women who were gradually reconstructing their lives after hearing my tale. They allowed me to enter a realm I knew very little about, including digital traceability, data analysis, and even the fundamentals of financial cybersecurity.
Then, out of nostalgia, I turned on my old phone one day and discovered messages and pictures Romain had sent to one of his girlfriends. I was completely frozen by what I found.
I just anticipated a few forgotten recollections as I turned on my old phone again. Rather, I discovered well-planned chaos: phony paperwork, skillfully evaded VAT, unclear transfers between his companies, and covert payments. A little fraud handbook.
I thought I had lost my accounting instincts, but they came back right away. I recalled that I occasionally assisted him in organizing his paperwork in the early years of our marriage. Spreadsheets, bank statement copies, unreported bills, and images of his management software were all things I had unintentionally retained. tiny fragments that made a distinct pattern when arranged in a group.
I realized that Romain was concealing enormous quantities of money when I compared my archives with what he had told the tax authorities and social agencies. Tens or maybe hundreds of thousands of euros were carefully hidden, not just a few misplaced bills.
Camille went pale when I showed her everything.
— “Anaïs The financial crime brigade, TRACFIN, and the tax office would pick him up in a week with a file like this.
Prison was not what I wanted. Not for my son, not for him. All I wanted was for him to realize that I was no longer the woman he could crush on without repercussions.
I then gave him a call. Persuaded that I had erred, he laughed.
I emailed him a flawlessly put together PDF. One line underneath:
€350,000 can be transferred in 24 hours. If not, I send everything.
He called back ten minutes later, anxious:
— “Is this blackmail?”
— “No. It’s the cost of your liberty.
One of the shell firms he owned sent €350,000 twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes later.
I didn’t keep much of it. My parents received a portion, and Camille’s fund received another. A silent indication of my reconstruction, the remainder rests in an account.
I had no desire for retribution.
had to get back on my feet – and I did.
