Chapter 3
Zoey was my college roommate.
We shared a dorm room for four years straight.
After graduation, she moved to Silicon Valley to work in tech marketing.
We never lost touch.
We'd catch up over the phone at least once a week.
She'd vent about her job, and I'd dish about the little things in my marriage.
She always told me, "Your husband treats you like a queen. I'm so jealous."
And I fell for it.
Two years ago, she moved back to Metropolis, claiming her company was opening a local office.
I was ecstatic.
I helped her hunt for an apartment, helped her haul boxes, and had her over for dinner constantly.
Whenever Zoey stopped by, she'd bring a bottle of wine and rave about my cooking.
She'd say, "Girl, these slow-cooker short ribs are to die for."
"Emma, your place is like something out of a magazine."
"Honestly, Ryan doesn't know how lucky he is to have you."
Ryan would just lounge on the sectional, doom-scrolling on his phone, only looking up to offer a stray smile.
Nothing about their energy felt off.
They never caught each other's eyes.
They maintained a polite, respectful distance.
Neither of them said a word more than they had to.
It was almost unnervingly textbook.
Everything was so routine that it didn't even trigger an alarm.
But now, looking back through a different lens—
It was so normal that it felt staged.
When two people are keeping a secret, they act so perfectly natural in front of the spouse—it's like they're rehearsing a play.
Every time Zoey dropped by, we'd kill hours talking.
We'd gossip about my office drama or the state of my marriage.
"How are things between you two lately?" she'd ask.
"Yeah, we're fine, I guess," I told her.
"Is he still treating you right?" Zoey pressed.
"He's good," I replied.
"Good to hear," she said.
She was scoping me out.
She needed to see if I had any inkling of the truth.
I didn't have a clue.
I even confided in her about the miscarriage.
"He was stuck out of town for work, so I had go to the ER myself," I told Zoey.
Zoey went dead silent for a beat.
"That's... that's just brutal," she finally managed.
I actually thought she sounded sympathetic.
That one second of silence—now the penny dropped.
She knew exactly where he'd been that weekend.
Because he was in bed with her.
It took three days of living with the truth for the rest of the puzzle to fall into place.
On the afternoon of the third day, I went to see a contact.
Monica Wells.
She was my mentor back at the university, and now she's a heavy hitter in family law.
She specializes in high-stakes divorces.
We weren't exactly close, but we'd kept each other in our networks.
She once posted on Instagram: [The most reckless thing you can do in a marriage is fail to keep a separate exit fund.]
Back then, I thought she was being cynical.
Now, sitting across from her in her office, I slid my phone across the desk.
137 screenshots.
The SmartHome app logs.
The bank statements.
The dashcam footage.
Monica scrolled through every single image, her face unreadable.
When she finally locked her phone, she looked up.
"How long has this been happening?" she asked.
"I'm not entirely sure. At least two years," I replied.
"What assets are in your name?" Monica asked.
"Nothing. The deed to the house is in his name, the cars too. As for the cash... I have no idea where he's hiding it," I replied.
Monica leaned back, studying me.
"Emma, you've been his wife for nine years. Any idea what his actual net worth is?" she asked.
"The firm is doing well, probably worth seven to ten million, give or take," I replied.
"And how much of your own money went into that mortgage?" Monica asked.
"About 615,000 dollars," I said.
Monica slid my phone back across the mahogany desk.
"Whatever you do, don't tip his hand yet," Monica said.
"I know the drill," I replied.
"Your job right now is to build a deeper paper trail—the longer the timeline of the affair, the better. And you need to dig into the books—find out where he's parked every cent," Monica advised.
I gave a slow nod.
"One more thing," Monica said, her gaze narrowing. "This friend of yours—if they have a kid together, it changes the entire math for the worse."
My hand froze halfway to my bag.
"You really think they'd have a kid?" I asked.
"If this has been going on for five years, do you really think it's off the table?" Monica shot back.
I couldn't find the words to answer.