“Poor thing,” he cooed.
He kissed my cheek, and that’s when I smelled it. Beneath the scent of garlic and his expensive cologne, there was a faint lingering note of vanilla and coconut. It was her perfume—Monica’s cheap drugstore body spray that she loved because it “smelled like vacation.”
He had been with her recently. Maybe right before he came home to cook my steak. He hadn’t even bothered to shower. He was so arrogant, so sure of my blindness, that he walked into our home carrying the scent of his mistress on his skin.
“I think I need to lie down for a bit,” I said. “The smell of the food, it’s a little strong for my head right now.”
“Of course,” he said, the picture of concern. “Go rest. I’ll keep your dinner warm. Do you want some aspirin?”
“No, just sleep,” I said.
I walked up the stairs, feeling his eyes on my back. My legs felt like lead. I entered our bedroom—the room where we had tried to conceive a child for five years—and locked the door. I walked straight to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the sink. Nothing came up, just bitter bile. I turned on the faucet to mask any noise. I splashed cold water on my face, watching the droplets run down like tears I refused to shed.
I needed to know more. The phone call was the smoking gun. But in a divorce involving millions of dollars, specifically inherited wealth, I needed a nuclear arsenal. I needed to know exactly where he was planning to move the money. He mentioned an offshore shell.
I dried my face and walked back into the bedroom. Richard’s iPad was on the nightstand. He usually took it everywhere, but he must have left it charging. My heart rate spiked. I knew his passcode. It was his birthday. Narcissist.
I unplugged it and sat on the edge of the bed, my ears straining for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I opened his messages. He had deleted the thread with Monica. He was careful about that. But he hadn’t cleared his browser history.
I clicked on Safari. My fingers trembled as I scrolled.
Non-extradition countries. Real estate in Belize. How to hide assets in a trust divorce. Paternity test accuracy timeline. And then the most chilling search of all, time-stamped three days ago:
Average life expectancy of woman with high blood pressure.
I froze. I didn’t have high blood pressure. But my mother did. Was he planning to wait for my parents to die, too? Or was he hoping the stress of the divorce would kill me?
I heard the heavy thud of a footstep on the stairs. I quickly locked the iPad, plugged it back in, and dove under the duvet, pulling it up to my chin. I feigned sleep, my breathing shallow and even.
The doorknob turned.“Laura,” he whispered.
I didn’t move. He stood there for a moment, watching me. I could feel his presence like a dark shadow in the room. Then I heard the soft ping of a notification from the iPad. He walked over, picked it up, and I heard the tapping of his fingers.
“Sleep tight, cash cow,” he whispered so low I almost didn’t hear it.
He closed the door.
I opened my eyes in the darkness. He thought I was sleeping. He thought I was the cash cow—but he forgot that cows have horns, and when they are cornered, they stampede.
The next morning, the doorbell rang at 10:00 a.m. sharp. It was Monica. I had barely slept. My eyes felt gritty, but I had applied extra concealer and put on a crisp white blouse. Armor. I needed armor.
Richard had left for work early, which probably meant he was looking at real estate listings or meeting with a shady accountant. So it was just me and the woman carrying my husband’s child.
I opened the door and there she was. She looked glowing. I had to admit, pregnancy suited her. She was wearing one of the oversized cashmere sweaters I had bought her two weeks ago. It cost four hundred dollars. She had spilled coffee on it already.
“Laura!” she squealed, leaning in for a hug.
I held my breath as her body pressed against mine. I could feel the hard bump of her stomach against my waist. It took every ounce of willpower not to shove her backward down the porch steps.
“Hi, Monica,” I said, my voice tight. “Come on in.”
We sat in the sunroom. I poured her a cup of decaf herbal tea, the expensive blend she liked.
“So,” she said, blowing on the steam. “How are you? Richard texted me that you had a migraine last night. You poor thing. You really need to take better care of yourself. At your age, stress can be dangerous.”
At your age. The first dig of the morning.
“I’m fine,” I said, taking a sip of my black coffee. “Just a lot on my mind. Richard and I were talking about the future.”
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
