Chapter 1

Olivia Hayes, the woman my husband Michael Grant kept for six years, was dead. The cause of death was unknown.

That night, he swallowed some pills at home. By the time I found him, he was already unconscious.

Everyone thought I would break down, but my eyes stayed dry the whole time.

For six years, I played the fool. I saved every bank transfer, every message, and every hotel check-in.

While he was fighting for his life in the hospital, I was in a law firm, signing the papers. The houses, cars, savings, and shares all went to me. Not one was left.

His mom, Margaret Grant, stormed into the hospital, calling me heartless, but I only said one sentence. Then she collapsed to the floor right then and there, unable to say another word.

The call came at 2:17 a.m. The number was unfamiliar, so I didn't answer.

It rang again. I hit decline and rolled to the other side.

When it rang a third time, Michael sat up next to me. His phone was buzzing too. In the darkness, he stared at the screen, frozen.

I kept my eyes closed and heard his breathing get heavier. Then he got up, went to the balcony, and the door closed behind him.

I opened my eyes. I already knew who it was without looking.

It had been six years. At that hour, only that woman would call. But tonight was different.

Michael lingered on the balcony for ages, and when he finally came back in, his steps were shaky.

He never came back to bed. He sat on the couch all night until the sun came up.

I got up at six as usual to make breakfast: oatmeal, fried eggs, and some pickles.

He sat at the table, not touching his food.

"What's wrong?" I asked him.

He glanced at me. There was a storm of emotions in his eyes. Then he said, "Nothing."

With that, he walked out the door. His breakfast sat there, completely untouched.

At ten in the morning, I got a call. This time, it was from the police station. "Are you Michael's wife?" the officer asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"We need you to come in and help us with something."

I said okay, hung up, and sat on the couch, staring at the unopened milk carton on the coffee table.

Olivia was dead.

I knew her name, and I knew she lived in Apartment 2203 at Emerald Bay, Eastside.

I knew she drove a white Audi A5.

I knew she'd wait for Michael every Thursday afternoon at the café downstairs from Brightstone Materials.

I knew it all.

For six years, over nineteen hundred days and nights, I was a video camera recording every dark secret of this marriage.

It wasn't because I couldn't let go, but because it wasn't the right moment yet.

At eight that night, Michael still hadn't come home.

At nine, he still wasn't back.

At ten, I called him, but his phone was off.

At eleven, I pushed open the study door and found him on the floor beside a half-empty bottle of sleeping pills and half a bottle of whiskey.

His phone was still in his hand, its screen glowing in the darkness. On the screen was a photo. It was a photo of Olivia.

I crouched down, checked his breathing, and found he was still alive. I called 911, then took a screenshot of the photo on his phone and emailed it to myself.

Before the ambulance arrived, I went through his call history. The last call was to a number saved as "Brian Cole." It was made three hours ago.

I'd never seen that name before. Then I jotted it down.

As the paramedics loaded him onto the stretcher, I stood in the doorway, stone-faced.

A neighbor poked his head out to see what was going on. "What happened to Michael?"

"He's got a stomachache," I replied.

Michael was in the ER all night. They pumped his stomach, hooked him up to IVs, and kept him in the ICU. The doctor said if they'd been half an hour later, he wouldn't have made it.

I sat on a chair in the hallway, holding a cup of cold water.

The nurse asked if I wanted to go in and see him.

"No, let him sleep," I said.

I tossed the cup in the trash and headed out of the hospital. Dawn was breaking.

The first place I went wasn't home but a law firm in the northern part of the city.

William Taylor, my lawyer, was already waiting for me at the entrance.

He wore a sharp suit, and his briefcase held everything I'd collected over six years: bank transfers, hotel receipts, chat logs, voice transcripts, property deeds, and stock transfer records. They were a thick stack, sorted and dated.

"Emily, are you sure you want to do this today?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"What about Michael?"

"He's still in the hospital, unconscious."

William nodded, saying nothing more.

At nine, I walked into the law firm and signed with a steady hand.

The downtown three-bedroom apartment and the Volvo went in my name. The savings from four accounts, totaling 1.1 million dollars, were frozen in my name.

And then there was the forty percent stake in Grant Enterprises. This wasn't something I did today.

Three years ago, I made him sign a postnuptial agreement.

That day, he got drunk and argued with Olivia. After he came home, he took it out on me and smashed a cup.

I didn't say a word, but put the agreement in front of him. "Sign it, and I won't ask about your affairs outside anymore."

He didn't look at it. He signed it with a flourish.

Men were at their dumbest when they were feeling smug.

He thought I was backing down. But that night, as I watched him sign, all I could think was, 'Michael, the biggest mistake you'll ever make is underestimating me.'

After everything was signed at the law firm, I locked all the documents away in the safe.