Chapter 1
As I tore down the interstate, it finally clicked who was sitting in the passenger seat of that car.
That blacked-out Cullinan belonged to Ryan Carter. I knew that vanity plate better than my own social security number—RY-FEB5. I'd been standing right next to him at the DMV when he picked it out.
The girl in the shotgun seat turned her head and grinned.
She had her hair pulled back in a messy pony, wearing a white tank and a Cartier love-bolt on her wrist.
It was Zoey James.
My literal day-one sister.
My grip on the wheel didn't even flinch.
I didn't bother hitting the horn.
Silent, I punched the save button on the dashcam.
Then I eased off the gas and stalked them from the slow lane.
*****
Ryan's Cullinan cruised ahead of me for forty minutes.
I trailed them the entire way.
They caught the Silvercreek exit.
I swerved onto the off-ramp right behind them.
The Cullinan rolled through the gates of a residential neighborhood.
Silvercreek Residences.
I didn't try to follow them inside.
I killed the engine in a gas station parking lot across the street.
I sat in the silence for ten minutes.
Then I grabbed my phone and tapped into the SmartHome app.
I had Ryan's password—I was the one who set up the account in the first place.
Two addresses blinked on the screen.
The first was our house in Metropolis.
The second one—
Unit 302, Building 7, Silvercreek Residences.
Note: The Nook.
I stared at those two words until they blurred.
"The Nook."
We'd been married nine years, and he always just called our place "home."
But this place? This was his "Nook."
I swiped the app closed.
I didn't shed a single tear.
I pulled up the Amex app and scrolled through the charges on Ryan's gold card.
That card drew straight from the account where my paychecks landed. He swiped it whenever he felt like it, and I always cleared the statement.
I'd never bothered looking at the itemized list before.
But today, I scrutinized every single line.
Cartier, 14,000 dollars.
March 7th.
Zoey's birthday was the 8th.
He'd picked it up a day early.
I kept scrolling.
Gucci, 4,000 dollars.
Dior, 2,600 dollars.
Some boutique plastic surgery center, 12,000 dollars.
Every cent went toward things for a woman.
I didn't own a single piece of Cartier.
I didn't have anything from Gucci.
The last time I bought skincare, I'd bulk-ordered 30-dollar face masks during a Black Friday blowout.
With a 5,700-dollar mortgage due every month, luxury brands weren't even on my radar.
I kept scrolling through the history.
On the 5th of every month, he wired 3,000 dollars.
Recipient: Zoey.
Memo: Monthly Stipend.
He was paying Zoey a 3,000-dollar stipend every single month.
Three thousand dollars, every month.
Meanwhile, my salary covered every single utility and grocery bill at home.
I sat in the driver's seat, the gas station neon humming against the windshield.
The glare from the screen washed out my face.
I screenshotted every single transaction.
One by one, from top to bottom.
137 screenshots in total.
Once the last one saved, I cranked the engine, merged onto the interstate, and drove back toward Metropolis.
I drove for ninety minutes straight.
I didn't turn on the radio.
I didn't call a soul.
Ryan wasn't home when I let myself in.
I showered and crashed onto the bed, exhausted.
At eleven o'clock, the front door finally clicked shut.
"You're back late," I noted, watching him enter the room.
"Yeah, just a client dinner," Ryan said.
He yanked his tie loose and disappeared into the bathroom for a shower.
I could smell the perfume clinging to his skin as he passed.
It wasn't a scent he should be wearing.
It was Zoey's.
Jo Malone, Wild Bluebell.
I knew it instantly—mostly because I was the one who told her to buy it.
"It's a great scent," I had told her. "You should make it your signature."
She definitely did.
She wore it just so my husband could bring it home to me.
Ryan stepped out of the steam, his hair still dripping onto his shoulders.
"Since when do you beat me home from the office?" he asked.
"I called it an early day," I replied.
"Gotcha," he muttered.
He climbed into bed and immediately rolled his back to me.
Three minutes later, his snoring filled the room.
I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Nine years.
We had been married for nine long years.