Chapter 1 · I Chauffered Him Straight to His Affair

Chapter 1

After my husband, Victor Hughes, got drunk, he slumped into the passenger seat, squinted at me, and asked, "Designated driver?"

I didn't answer. I leaned over to fasten his seatbelt.

He let out a hiccup and mumbled, "Go to Rosewood Residences, Building B, Unit 1702."

My hands paused. Rosewood Residences wasn't our address.

We lived in Bluewater Bay.

He muttered, "Step on it. Someone's waiting for me over there."

I pressed my lips together and gave a small smile. "Alright, hold on tight."

I floored it, and the car shot forward.

He slumped back in his seat and was soon snoring away. His phone screen lit up with a WhatsApp notification. The contact was saved as "Bro."

It was a sticker with a cute, flirty vibe and a message: [Knock when you arrive. I'll keep the light on for you.]

I stared at the message for three seconds.

Then I gently placed the phone back in his hand.

*****

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at Rosewood Residences.

I parked the car in front of Building B and tapped him gently on the cheek. "We're here."

Victor groggily opened his eyes, pushed the door open, and stumbled out, nearly tripping as he bumped into the doorframe.

He waved without looking back. "I'll pay you tomorrow."

I sat in the car, watching him stagger into the building. He pulled out a keycard, the kind he always kept on him, swiped it, and the door opened.

He did it like he'd done it a hundred times before.

I turned off the engine, leaned back in my seat, and stared up at the seventeenth floor.

Three minutes later, the light in that apartment came on.

The curtains were pink.

I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo.

Then I started the car and drove back to Bluewater Bay.

*****

When I got home, the living room was dark.

I put up the down payment, and I was the one paying the mortgage every month.

But the deed was only in Victor's name.

He said it would make getting the loan easier if it were under his name.

I believed him.

Three years into our marriage, I'd already quit my job and handled everything for him, from laundry to cooking, making sure his life was always on track.

His company grew from a hole-in-the-wall studio to signing big clients. Maybe I didn't get the recognition, but all the hard work was mine.

But when he got drunk, home wasn't the first place on his mind.

I sat on the couch, saving the photos I'd taken tonight into a new folder.

Then I opened WhatsApp and sent Monica Grant a message: [Hey, you there? I need to ask you something. It's about divorce.]

Monica replied in three seconds: [Finally. Been waiting for this moment. Come by my office tomorrow morning. I'm clearing my schedule for you.]

I saw her reply and couldn't help but laugh.

Everyone was waiting for me to finally get it, while I kept acting clueless.

My phone buzzed again. It was a message from Victor: [Honey, I got pretty drunk with a client tonight. I'm crashing at Bro's place and will be home tomorrow.]

Bro again. I replied with one word: [Okay.]

He replied instantly with a kissy emoji.

I set my phone face down on the coffee table and headed to the bedroom.

As I passed the shoe rack, I spotted the limited-edition sneakers he'd bought last week, $1,600, charged to my credit card.

I bent down, picked them up, opened the door, and set them next to the trash can by the entrance.

Then I closed the door and locked it.

*****

The next morning, I put on some light makeup, slipped into a sharp black blazer, and headed to Monica's law firm.

Monica was my college roommate. She'd been a family law attorney for five years, and the divorce cases she'd handled could circle this building three times.

She poured me a glass of water and got straight to the point. "So, what did he do?"

I said, "He got wasted last night, thought I was his driver, and told me to take him to some woman's place."

Monica paused, her hand hovering over the glass. "Did you remember the address?"

"Rosewood Residences, Building B, 1702."

"He has a keycard for that place?"

"He always carries it with him."

Monica set her glass down and leaned back in her chair. "After three years of marriage, how much do you have saved under your own name?"

"Less than twenty-five thousand dollars."

She frowned. "Whose name is on the house?"

"His."

"Who paid the down payment?"

"I put down one hundred and fifteen thousand dollars."

"Do you have the transfer records?"

"Yeah."

Monica typed away on her keyboard for a bit, then looked up at me. "Emily, did you seriously forget who you are?"

I froze for a moment.

She lowered her voice. "If your dad knew what you've been through these past three years—"

"Monica," I interrupted her.

"Let's not talk about that right now. I want to know what I can get out of the divorce."

She looked at me for a few seconds, then nodded. "Alright. First, we'll gather evidence, then talk about what you can get. Do you know the name of that so-called 'Bro' he keeps mentioning?"

"No, but I know there's this woman at his company he keeps bringing up. He says she's like a 'bro' to him. Her name is Sophia Dean."

Monica tapped her fingers on the desk. "So this 'female bro' of his lives in Rosewood Residences, paying five grand a month in rent? And she's a regular employee?"

She gave a knowing laugh. "Chances are, your husband's the one paying for all this."

I didn't say a word.

She stood up and patted my shoulder. "Leave the evidence gathering to me. For now, make sure you don't tip him off.

"Just keep cooking, keep smiling, let him think everything's business as usual."

I nodded. "No problem. I've been pretending for three years already. A few more days is no big deal."

After leaving Monica's office, I drove past Rosewood Residences.

I didn't stop.

But I pulled up the property info for 1702 on my phone. Victor's name was right there as the owner.

He was using my down payment for our mortgage, but he'd secretly bought another apartment with it.

Where did he get the money for that?

Then I remembered the money he borrowed from me last year.

He said his company was short on cash and asked if I could borrow $106,000 from my family to bail him out.

I didn't go to my family. Instead, I cashed out a certificate of deposit I'd opened before we got married and transferred the proceeds to him. It was $160,000.

I knew exactly where that money went.

It became the down payment for Rosewood Residences, Building B, 1702.

It turned into those pink curtains and the light she always left on.

I gripped the steering wheel, but I didn't cry.

When I married Victor, I gave up everything everyone told me not to.

My dad said, "If you want to marry him, go ahead. But the only thing you're taking from the Shaw family is yourself."

I said yes.

Three years passed, and I never spent a dollar of Shaw family money, never called them.

I thought I was making a stand for love.

Looking back at this moment, I was stubbornly clinging to a joke.

*****

Victor came home around noon.

He walked in still smelling like booze, mixed with that sugary perfume women wear.

"I drank way too much last night and crashed at Sam's place," he said. He claimed he crashed at Sam's place last night.

But on WhatsApp, he told me he was at "Bro's place."

He couldn't even keep his stories straight.

I carried out two dishes and a plate of soup from the kitchen, setting them on the table. "Lunch's ready."

He sat down, shoveled in a few bites, then suddenly looked up at me. "You're wearing makeup today?"

"Yeah, had some things to take care of."

"What kind of errands?"

"Just went to the bank to ask about some investments."

He said, "Fine," and didn't ask any more questions.

After dinner, he went to the study to take a call, closing the door and keeping his voice low.

As I walked by with a plate, I overheard him muttering, "Quit it. I'll bring it over tonight."

I put the plate in the dishwasher, dried my hands, and sat down in the living room.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Monica: [Got it. Rosewood Residences, Building B, 1702. Bought in March 2022, paid in full, $400,000. Buyer: Victor Hughes.]

Paid in full. So it wasn't a $160,000 down payment. He paid the entire $400,000 in cash.

So where did the other $250,000 come from?

Monica sent another message: [I checked his company's transactions over the past two years. There are a few suspicious transfers from the company account to his personal account. Want me to dig deeper?]

I replied: [Check it.]

The study door opened, and Victor came out, dressed in fresh clothes and holding his car keys. "I've got a business dinner tonight, so I'll probably be late again. Don't wait up for me."

I smiled at him. "Take care."

He walked over to the door and bent down, searching for his shoes. "Where are my black limited-edition sneakers?"

"No clue, maybe they're airing out on the balcony?"

He searched around but couldn't find them, grumbled something under his breath, and grabbed another pair before heading out.

The moment the door clicked shut, I let my smile fade.

He had no idea those shoes had spent the whole night by the trash can.

Just like he had no clue, his wife had changed overnight.

Chapter 1

After my husband, Victor Hughes, got drunk, he slumped into the passenger seat, squinted at me, and asked, "Designated driver?"

I didn't answer. I leaned over to fasten his seatbelt.

He let out a hiccup and mumbled, "Go to Rosewood Residences, Building B, Unit 1702."

My hands paused. Rosewood Residences wasn't our address.

We lived in Bluewater Bay.

He muttered, "Step on it. Someone's waiting for me over there."

I pressed my lips together and gave a small smile. "Alright, hold on tight."

I floored it, and the car shot forward.

He slumped back in his seat and was soon snoring away. His phone screen lit up with a WhatsApp notification. The contact was saved as "Bro."

It was a sticker with a cute, flirty vibe and a message: [Knock when you arrive. I'll keep the light on for you.]

I stared at the message for three seconds.

Then I gently placed the phone back in his hand.

*****

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at Rosewood Residences.

I parked the car in front of Building B and tapped him gently on the cheek. "We're here."

Victor groggily opened his eyes, pushed the door open, and stumbled out, nearly tripping as he bumped into the doorframe.

He waved without looking back. "I'll pay you tomorrow."

I sat in the car, watching him stagger into the building. He pulled out a keycard, the kind he always kept on him, swiped it, and the door opened.

He did it like he'd done it a hundred times before.

I turned off the engine, leaned back in my seat, and stared up at the seventeenth floor.

Three minutes later, the light in that apartment came on.

The curtains were pink.

I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo.

Then I started the car and drove back to Bluewater Bay.

*****

When I got home, the living room was dark.

I put up the down payment, and I was the one paying the mortgage every month.

But the deed was only in Victor's name.

He said it would make getting the loan easier if it were under his name.

I believed him.

Three years into our marriage, I'd already quit my job and handled everything for him, from laundry to cooking, making sure his life was always on track.

His company grew from a hole-in-the-wall studio to signing big clients. Maybe I didn't get the recognition, but all the hard work was mine.

But when he got drunk, home wasn't the first place on his mind.

I sat on the couch, saving the photos I'd taken tonight into a new folder.

Then I opened WhatsApp and sent Monica Grant a message: [Hey, you there? I need to ask you something. It's about divorce.]

Monica replied in three seconds: [Finally. Been waiting for this moment. Come by my office tomorrow morning. I'm clearing my schedule for you.]

I saw her reply and couldn't help but laugh.

Everyone was waiting for me to finally get it, while I kept acting clueless.

My phone buzzed again. It was a message from Victor: [Honey, I got pretty drunk with a client tonight. I'm crashing at Bro's place and will be home tomorrow.]

Bro again. I replied with one word: [Okay.]

He replied instantly with a kissy emoji.

I set my phone face down on the coffee table and headed to the bedroom.

As I passed the shoe rack, I spotted the limited-edition sneakers he'd bought last week, $1,600, charged to my credit card.

I bent down, picked them up, opened the door, and set them next to the trash can by the entrance.

Then I closed the door and locked it.

*****

The next morning, I put on some light makeup, slipped into a sharp black blazer, and headed to Monica's law firm.

Monica was my college roommate. She'd been a family law attorney for five years, and the divorce cases she'd handled could circle this building three times.

She poured me a glass of water and got straight to the point. "So, what did he do?"

I said, "He got wasted last night, thought I was his driver, and told me to take him to some woman's place."

Monica paused, her hand hovering over the glass. "Did you remember the address?"

"Rosewood Residences, Building B, 1702."

"He has a keycard for that place?"

"He always carries it with him."

Monica set her glass down and leaned back in her chair. "After three years of marriage, how much do you have saved under your own name?"

"Less than twenty-five thousand dollars."

She frowned. "Whose name is on the house?"

"His."

"Who paid the down payment?"

"I put down one hundred and fifteen thousand dollars."

"Do you have the transfer records?"

"Yeah."

Monica typed away on her keyboard for a bit, then looked up at me. "Emily, did you seriously forget who you are?"

I froze for a moment.

She lowered her voice. "If your dad knew what you've been through these past three years—"

"Monica," I interrupted her.

"Let's not talk about that right now. I want to know what I can get out of the divorce."

She looked at me for a few seconds, then nodded. "Alright. First, we'll gather evidence, then talk about what you can get. Do you know the name of that so-called 'Bro' he keeps mentioning?"

"No, but I know there's this woman at his company he keeps bringing up. He says she's like a 'bro' to him. Her name is Sophia Dean."

Monica tapped her fingers on the desk. "So this 'female bro' of his lives in Rosewood Residences, paying five grand a month in rent? And she's a regular employee?"

She gave a knowing laugh. "Chances are, your husband's the one paying for all this."

I didn't say a word.

She stood up and patted my shoulder. "Leave the evidence gathering to me. For now, make sure you don't tip him off.

"Just keep cooking, keep smiling, let him think everything's business as usual."

I nodded. "No problem. I've been pretending for three years already. A few more days is no big deal."

After leaving Monica's office, I drove past Rosewood Residences.

I didn't stop.

But I pulled up the property info for 1702 on my phone. Victor's name was right there as the owner.

He was using my down payment for our mortgage, but he'd secretly bought another apartment with it.

Where did he get the money for that?

Then I remembered the money he borrowed from me last year.

He said his company was short on cash and asked if I could borrow $106,000 from my family to bail him out.

I didn't go to my family. Instead, I cashed out a certificate of deposit I'd opened before we got married and transferred the proceeds to him. It was $160,000.

I knew exactly where that money went.

It became the down payment for Rosewood Residences, Building B, 1702.

It turned into those pink curtains and the light she always left on.

I gripped the steering wheel, but I didn't cry.

When I married Victor, I gave up everything everyone told me not to.

My dad said, "If you want to marry him, go ahead. But the only thing you're taking from the Shaw family is yourself."

I said yes.

Three years passed, and I never spent a dollar of Shaw family money, never called them.

I thought I was making a stand for love.

Looking back at this moment, I was stubbornly clinging to a joke.

*****

Victor came home around noon.

He walked in still smelling like booze, mixed with that sugary perfume women wear.

"I drank way too much last night and crashed at Sam's place," he said. He claimed he crashed at Sam's place last night.

But on WhatsApp, he told me he was at "Bro's place."

He couldn't even keep his stories straight.

I carried out two dishes and a plate of soup from the kitchen, setting them on the table. "Lunch's ready."

He sat down, shoveled in a few bites, then suddenly looked up at me. "You're wearing makeup today?"

"Yeah, had some things to take care of."

"What kind of errands?"

"Just went to the bank to ask about some investments."

He said, "Fine," and didn't ask any more questions.

After dinner, he went to the study to take a call, closing the door and keeping his voice low.

As I walked by with a plate, I overheard him muttering, "Quit it. I'll bring it over tonight."

I put the plate in the dishwasher, dried my hands, and sat down in the living room.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from Monica: [Got it. Rosewood Residences, Building B, 1702. Bought in March 2022, paid in full, $400,000. Buyer: Victor Hughes.]

Paid in full. So it wasn't a $160,000 down payment. He paid the entire $400,000 in cash.

So where did the other $250,000 come from?

I replied: [Check it.]

The study door opened, and Victor came out, dressed in fresh clothes and holding his car keys. "I've got a business dinner tonight, so I'll probably be late again. Don't wait up for me."

I smiled at him. "Take care."

He walked over to the door and bent down, searching for his shoes. "Where are my black limited-edition sneakers?"

"No clue, maybe they're airing out on the balcony?"

He searched around but couldn't find them, grumbled something under his breath, and grabbed another pair before heading out.

The moment the door clicked shut, I let my smile fade.

He had no idea those shoes had spent the whole night by the trash can.

Just like he had no clue, his wife had changed overnight.