Chapter 4

The dining room felt unusually tense tonight. I'd spent hours preparing Robert's favorite meal—herb-crusted rack of lamb with roasted vegetables—hoping to salvage what remained of our anniversary week. Emily sat quietly across from me, pushing food around her plate, while our son Michael was absorbed in his phone under the table, probably texting his girlfriend.

Robert's phone buzzed. I recognized the special ringtone immediately—the one reserved for Amy. His eyes flicked to the screen, and a smile spread across his face. Not the polite, practiced smile he gave me, but something genuine that made my stomach twist.

"I need to take this," he announced, already standing. "Important client call."

"It's dinner time, Dad," Emily said, her voice carrying an edge I rarely heard from her. "Can't it wait?"

Robert's expression hardened. "Some of us have careers to maintain, Emily." His gaze shifted to me, dismissive. "Linda, make sure Michael's homework is done before he goes to bed."

Then he was gone, the French doors to our terrace sliding closed behind him. I watched through the window as he paced the garden, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. His voice drifted in occasionally, words like "darling" and "our plans" floating through the glass.

One hour and seventeen minutes later, according to the grandfather clock in the hallway, Robert returned. His hair was slightly disheveled, his collar unbuttoned. He didn't apologize for his absence.

"I'll be traveling for business next week," he announced, pouring himself another glass of wine. "Two weeks, actually. The Singapore deal needs my personal attention."

My fork clattered against my plate. "Two weeks? But Michael has his debate tournament, and Emily's art show is—"

"I'm aware of the calendar, Linda." His tone was sharp. "This is why we have you. To handle the domestic matters."

I thought of the earrings in my pocket, the text messages on his phone. Singapore. How many times had he told me that story?

"Will Amy be joining you?" I asked quietly.

Robert's wine glass paused halfway to his lips. "My assistant? Yes, she'll be handling the logistics." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious about who will be keeping you company during your long absence from home."

The next morning, while Robert showered, I logged into our joint bank accounts. Something had been nagging at me since last night—the casual way he'd mentioned the Singapore trip, as if money were no object.

What I found made my blood run cold.

The accounts were hollowed out. Nearly sixty percent of our savings—money I'd believed was secured for our children's education—was gone. Transferred systematically over the past year to offshore accounts I couldn't access.

I clicked through statement after statement, watching our financial security bleed away transaction by transaction. A pattern emerged: transfers would happen right before his "business trips," followed by credit card charges for jewelry, luxury hotels, and first-class flights.

Not for business. For Amy.

"Linda?" Robert's voice startled me. He stood in the doorway of our home office, towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his hair. "What are you doing?"

I turned the monitor toward him. "Explaining why you need to take our children's college fund to Singapore."

His face didn't even register surprise. Just annoyance. "You're overstepping again."

"Overstepping? Robert, you've emptied our accounts!"

"And?"

"And? That's all you have to say?"

"What would you have me say?" He shrugged, as if we were discussing a minor household budget issue rather than the theft of our family's future. "I earn the money. I decide how it's spent."

Later that afternoon, Emily found me in the kitchen, methodically chopping vegetables with more force than necessary.

"Mom?" Her voice was hesitant. "Why do you let him talk to you like that?"

I set down the knife, surprised by her directness. My beautiful sixteen-year-old daughter stood before me, her eyes—so like mine—filled with confusion and something worse: disappointment.

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters!" She stepped closer. "You're smart. You were a lawyer before you had us. You don't deserve to be treated like...like..."

"The help?" I supplied quietly.

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "Dad was horrible to you at dinner. And you just sat there."

I reached for her hand, but she pulled away. "Em, it's complicated—"

"No, it's not." Her voice cracked. "It's actually really simple. He's mean to you, and you let him be mean."

That night, unable to sleep beside Robert, I wandered through our house like a ghost. His office door was slightly ajar—unusual for a man who guarded his privacy so fiercely.

Inside, I found a drawer that wouldn't close properly. When I pulled it open, it revealed Amy's things—expensive lingerie in that same emerald green, bottles of perfume that weren't mine, and jewelry boxes containing pieces I'd never seen before.

Beneath them was a handwritten note on Amy's company stationery.

"My darling Robert," it began in flowing script. "Thank you for taking care of everything. I promise to make these two weeks in Singapore unforgettable—you'll come back forgetting all about your boring housewife. All my love, Amy."

The date at the top: our tenth wedding anniversary.

The front doorbell rang, startling me from my discovery. I quickly closed the drawer and made my way downstairs.

Standing on my doorstep was Margaret, Robert's mother. Her normally impeccable appearance was slightly disheveled, and she carried a leather portfolio under her arm.

"We need to talk," she said without preamble. "About Robert."

Something in her voice made me step aside to let her in. As she passed me, I noticed her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying.

"What I'm about to tell you," Margaret said as we settled in the living room, "I never thought I'd share with anyone."