Chapter 1
While I was approving a purchase order, I noticed a line that caught my eye. [Premium white shrimp, 5 pounds, delivered every Friday.]
The delivery address wasn't the company's, and it wasn't our home.
I stared at the unfamiliar apartment complex name for ten seconds.
Unit 1702, Building 3, Lakeview Gardens.
The notes section read: [Mr. Coleman's private order.]
I'd been married to Richard Coleman for eight years, and I'd never heard of this address.
But I knew there was only one "Mr. Coleman."
That was my husband.
*****
Most people had no idea that I built Coleman Seafood Co. with my own hands.
Eight years ago, I quit my job at the fisheries research institute.
I took the 60,000 dollars I'd saved and the 50,000 dollars my dad gave me, rented a 2,000-square-foot cold warehouse on the east side of the city, and started selling seafood wholesale.
Why did I use "Coleman"?
Because Richard said it was easier to do business under a man's name.
"You're a woman. If you're hustling at the market, riding with the trucks, and buying stock, nobody will take you seriously," he told me.
That was his reasoning.
I thought he had a point.
The company was registered under his name. Legal rep: Richard Coleman.
He played the role of "Mr. Coleman", schmoozing, drinking, swapping business cards.
Meanwhile, I was "Mrs. Coleman", up at 3 a.m. at the docks, making sure the shipments were right.
First year, revenue hit 240,000 dollars.
Second year, one million dollars.
Third year, we moved into a new processing plant, which was ten times bigger than the old one.
Fifth year, we landed the city's biggest chain restaurant supply contract.
Eighth year, annual revenue reached 11 million dollars.
Every dollar came from deals I fought for.
I was the contact on every supplier contract.
I remembered every big client's birthday.
I kept track of everything, like warehouse temps, shrimp sizes, delivery routes, factory shifts, and so on.
And Richard? He just signed the papers. Because he was the legal representative.
"Jayla, did the afternoon shipment arrive?" I asked.
"Yes, Ms. Shaw," Jayla Levy said, walking in with a folder. "Honor Hotel is pushing hard. They need it for their Friday dinner."
Jayla was a company veteran, working with me for six years.
She called me "Ms. Shaw."
Only outsiders considered Richard the owner.
Everyone inside knew the real boss was me.
"Alright, I'll keep an eye on it," I said.
I kept going through the purchase orders.
Then I saw that line. [Premium white shrimp, 5 pounds, delivered every Friday.]
Delivery address: Unit 1702, Building 3, Lakeview Gardens.
Notes: Mr. Coleman's private order.
I checked the history.
Every Friday, for three years straight. One hundred and fifty-six weeks. Seven hundred and eighty pounds of shrimp.
I read that number twice.
"Jayla," I called.
"Yeah?" she replied.
"Do you know where Lakeview Gardens is?"
"That new complex up north? Pretty upscale," she said, glancing at me. "Why?"
"Nothing."
I closed the purchase system and grabbed my car keys. "Keep an eye on things this afternoon. I'm heading out."
*****
I didn't go straight to Lakeview Gardens.
First, I went to the surveillance room next to our company warehouse.
I pulled up the photos from the company dinners for the past three months.
Coleman Seafood Co. has this tradition. At the end of every month, everyone would be treated to seafood at a partner restaurant, all on the company's dime.
I usually skipped those.
I was always too busy.
They were out sipping wine at the restaurant, while I was sitting by the cold storage, eating bread.
But every single time, the admin department would snap photos and post them in the company group chat.
I never bothered looking.
Today, though, I scrolled through every single one.
The first photo. A long table, more than twenty people, glasses clinking, laughter in the air.
Richard was at the head of the table.
Sitting to his right was a girl. Long hair, white dress, sweet smile.
I recognized her.
It was Jessica Lane.
Back then, she was a college intern who joined us eight years ago.
She got the full-time job later and now held the title "Administrative Director."
I kept going.
The second photo.
Richard had his head down.
There was a plate full of shrimp in front of him.
He was peeling them.
Each peeled shrimp was placed carefully on Jessica's plate.
The third photo.
Jessica tilted her head and smiled, holding a shrimp with her fork as she looked at Richard.
Richard was grinning too.
I kept scrolling.
Last month's dinner. The month before. Three months ago. Half a year ago.
In every photo of every single company dinner, Richard was peeling shrimp for Jessica.
He peeled them and put them on her plate.
She was smiling, and so was he.
I closed the group chat box.
Suddenly, something popped into my head.
Our first year of marriage, Richard and I went out to eat one time, and I asked him to peel some shrimp for me.
The thing was, I was mildly allergic to shrimp protein. If my hands touched the shells, I'd break out in a rash, but I could eat the meat just fine.
How did he react?
He said, "Can't you peel it yourself? You're a grown woman."
Then he pulled the plate toward himself and ate all the shrimp.
After that, I never asked him to do it for me again.
During the past eight years, he had never peeled a single shrimp for me.
He always thought it was too much trouble.
But for Jessica, he'd been peeling them for her for eight years.
Every dinner. Every single shrimp.
He peeled them and arranged them perfectly on her plate.
I stared at that photo of Richard, head down, painstakingly peeling shrimp for Jessica.
He was so meticulous and gentle.
He had never, not once, done that for me.
"Jayla," I called out.
"Yeah?" she answered.
"How much is Jessica's monthly salary?"
"6,000 dollars," Jayla said, glancing at me. "She's the Administrative Director, after all."
"Administrative Director," I repeated. "What time does she show up to work each day?"
Jayla paused for a moment.
"Give it to me straight," I said.
"She comes in at ten, and leaves at four. Sometimes she doesn't even show up," Jayla replied.
"Who approves her attendance?"
"Mr. Coleman."
"Okay." I stood up. "Got it."
*****
I didn't lose my cool.
I drove straight to Lakeview Gardens, the place that got five pounds of premium white shrimp delivered every Friday.
Lakeview Gardens was one of the most upscale complexes on the north side of the city.
I sat in my car at the entrance for a whole hour.
Then I pulled out my phone and searched for any property records tied to Unit 1702, Building 3, Lakeview Gardens.
I found nothing.
So I switched over to Richard's banking app.
I was the one who set his password. He never bothered to change it.
Guess he thought I'd never bother to look.
The transaction list was endless.
I scrolled, page after page.
On the third page, there it was. [Real Estate: Unit 1702, Building 3, Lakeview Gardens. Monthly payment: 3,000 dollars.]
3,000 dollars. Every single month. For three years straight.
Thirty-six months. 108,000 dollars.
I took a long, steady breath and then kept scrolling.
Pretty soon, another big one popped up. [Car Dealership: final payment: 60,000 dollars.]
There were more: [Jewelry store: 13,000 dollars.]
[Mall: 9,200 dollars.]
[Transfer to Jessica Lane: 3,000 dollars.]
[Transfer to Jessica Lane: 3,000 dollars.]
[Transfer to Jessica Lane: 5,000 dollars.]
Richard transferred money to Jessica every month like clockwork.
I scrolled back through three years of Richard's bank statements, tallying every personal transfer to Jessica, along with mortgage payments, car installments, and miscellaneous expenses.
The total on the calculator kept climbing, until it finally froze on a single number. 693,000 dollars.
And that was just from his personal account.
That didn't even include all the "Mr. Coleman's private orders" in the company system, or the stuff he got reimbursed through the company.
*****
That night, Richard came home at eleven o'clock.
He stank of alcohol.
"Had a few drinks with clients today," he said, kicking off his shoes.
"Sure," I said.
"Keep an eye on tomorrow's shipment."
"Okay."
He headed off to shower.
I sat on the couch, watching his back.
It had been eight years.
I went to the docks at three in the morning, but Richard bought a house for another woman.
I napped on a cold storage table, but he peeled shrimp for another woman.
I worked myself into a herniated disc, but he worried about another woman working overtime.
I built this entire company from the ground up, but he was giving it away to someone else, piece by piece.
I didn't cry.
What was the point?
Tears wouldn't get me my money back.