Chapter 3 · Three Years for His Knees

The interrogation room at Bridgeview Police Department was smaller than I'd imagined.

There was a metal table and two chairs. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, flooding the room with harsh white light. It felt like I was being scrutinized under a microscope.

The handcuffs were cold. The metal pressed against my wrists, and every little movement made a soft clinking sound.

I tried to see if I could wiggle free, but they were locked right at my joints, not too tight, not too loose. Whoever put them on knew their job.

Across from me sat John Carter, a detective sergeant in his early forties, with a deep crease between his brows.

When he stared at me, his gaze never wavered, and his eyebrows pressed down a little, like a pair of pliers slowly tightening around me.

The red light on the recording device was lit.

He'd been staring at me for three minutes.

Three minutes of silence. Classic old-school detective trick. He was trying to let the silence do the heavy lifting, waiting for the suspect to crack first.

But I wasn't an average suspect. I could hold out.

In the end, John was the one who spoke up first.

"Alex Rivers, male, twenty-eight, founder and legal representative of Riverside Tech." He flipped through the file in front of him. "Net worth—"

"Over 100 million dollars," I cut him off. "That's the company's valuation, not my personal assets. My personal liquid assets are about 12 million dollars.

"But I did an asset separation half a month ago, so my assets are completely separated from the marital property."

John paused, his pen hovering over the paper. "You did the asset separation half a month ago?"

"Yeah," I said.

"So you knew about it half a month ago."

"Two weeks ago, June 30th, 3:14 in the morning," I said. "She was asleep, her phone was charging, and suddenly a WhatsApp message popped up.

"Usually, I don't snoop through her phone, but I was wide awake that night. The screen lit up, and the preview popped up with the first word."

John asked, "What did it say?"

"'Babe,'" I replied.

John's expression stayed the same.

"Her contact was listed as 'Yoga Instructor,'" I said. "Laura doesn't do yoga. From the day we started dating to now, she wouldn't even recognize a yoga mat if she saw one."

"And then?" John asked.

"I read the whole thing," I said.

I leaned back in my chair, the handcuff chain stretching tight with a sharp clink.

"The message was from Brian Coleman. I'm not gonna repeat the details. No need to put that kind of crap on record," I continued. "Basically, he was making plans to meet up again. His words were slick, definitely not his first time."

"How did you react?" John asked.

I thought for a second. "I went to the bathroom and puked."

Honestly, I was hunched over the toilet, stomach acid burning my throat, felt like the cold started in my guts and spread out.

My hands were pressed against the tiled floor, sweat leaking between my fingers. The anti-slip ridges were digging into my palms, making them hurt.

After I finished, I stayed there, forehead against the cold tile wall, my breath bouncing around the tiny bathroom.

That was two weeks ago. That was the last time I let myself feel like a victim.

After I finished puking, I rinsed my face with cold water, went back to bed, and spent the whole night lying awake in the dark.

There was a water stain on the ceiling, still damp around the edges.

I spent six hours staring at that stain.

By sunrise, I had everything planned out.

"What did you do after June 30th?" John asked, his mind sharp.

"On July 1st, I met with my lawyer, David Quinn," I said.

"What did you talk about?" John asked.

"Three options," I said, holding up three fingers, the handcuff chain clinking. "Option A: a peaceful divorce. I leave everything behind and let Laura go.

"Option B: collect proof of her cheating, take it to court, and make sure the one at fault gets as little as possible in the settlement. Option C—"

"Option C?" John asked.

"That's what tonight is about," I said.

John's eyebrows finally twitched. He leaned forward, hands folded on the table, his gaze locking onto mine.

"You planned this," he said, not a question.

"Yeah," I said, not denying it. "I planned it."

"In two weeks, you managed to separate your assets, gather evidence, draft a divorce agreement, work out a criminal defense strategy, and even bought an iron bar," he listed them off, his voice calm and steady. "Why did you choose today to make your move?"

"Because today was the fourth time they met up," I said.

"You were following them?" John asked.

"There are hotel records," I said. "I know people. July 2nd was the first time, July 4th the second, July 9th the third, and today makes four. But today was different. They didn't go to a hotel."

"Because you were supposed to be out of town today," John said.

"Yeah. I told Laura I was flying to another city for an investor pitch and wouldn't be back until tomorrow," I said, pausing for a moment. "I did that on purpose. I left her an opening.

"If she picked my place, it changes things legally. Catching them in my own home looks a lot better than tracking them down somewhere else."

Chapter 3

The interrogation room at Bridgeview Police Department was smaller than I'd imagined.

There was a metal table and two chairs. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, flooding the room with harsh white light. It felt like I was being scrutinized under a microscope.

The handcuffs were cold. The metal pressed against my wrists, and every little movement made a soft clinking sound.

I tried to see if I could wiggle free, but they were locked right at my joints, not too tight, not too loose. Whoever put them on knew their job.

Across from me sat John Carter, a detective sergeant in his early forties, with a deep crease between his brows.

When he stared at me, his gaze never wavered, and his eyebrows pressed down a little, like a pair of pliers slowly tightening around me.

The red light on the recording device was lit.

He'd been staring at me for three minutes.

Three minutes of silence. Classic old-school detective trick. He was trying to let the silence do the heavy lifting, waiting for the suspect to crack first.

But I wasn't an average suspect. I could hold out.

In the end, John was the one who spoke up first.

"Alex Rivers, male, twenty-eight, founder and legal representative of Riverside Tech." He flipped through the file in front of him. "Net worth—"

"Over 100 million dollars," I cut him off. "That's the company's valuation, not my personal assets. My personal liquid assets are about 12 million dollars.

"But I did an asset separation half a month ago, so my assets are completely separated from the marital property."

John paused, his pen hovering over the paper. "You did the asset separation half a month ago?"

"Yeah," I said.

"So you knew about it half a month ago."

"Two weeks ago, June 30th, 3:14 in the morning," I said. "She was asleep, her phone was charging, and suddenly a WhatsApp message popped up.

"Usually, I don't snoop through her phone, but I was wide awake that night. The screen lit up, and the preview popped up with the first word."

John asked, "What did it say?"

"'Babe,'" I replied.

John's expression stayed the same.

"Her contact was listed as 'Yoga Instructor,'" I said. "Laura doesn't do yoga. From the day we started dating to now, she wouldn't even recognize a yoga mat if she saw one."

"And then?" John asked.

"I read the whole thing," I said.

I leaned back in my chair, the handcuff chain stretching tight with a sharp clink.

"How did you react?" John asked.

I thought for a second. "I went to the bathroom and puked."

Honestly, I was hunched over the toilet, stomach acid burning my throat, felt like the cold started in my guts and spread out.

My hands were pressed against the tiled floor, sweat leaking between my fingers. The anti-slip ridges were digging into my palms, making them hurt.

After I finished, I stayed there, forehead against the cold tile wall, my breath bouncing around the tiny bathroom.

That was two weeks ago. That was the last time I let myself feel like a victim.

After I finished puking, I rinsed my face with cold water, went back to bed, and spent the whole night lying awake in the dark.

There was a water stain on the ceiling, still damp around the edges.

I spent six hours staring at that stain.

By sunrise, I had everything planned out.

"What did you do after June 30th?" John asked, his mind sharp.

"On July 1st, I met with my lawyer, David Quinn," I said.

"What did you talk about?" John asked.

"Three options," I said, holding up three fingers, the handcuff chain clinking. "Option A: a peaceful divorce. I leave everything behind and let Laura go.

"Option B: collect proof of her cheating, take it to court, and make sure the one at fault gets as little as possible in the settlement. Option C—"

"Option C?" John asked.

"That's what tonight is about," I said.

John's eyebrows finally twitched. He leaned forward, hands folded on the table, his gaze locking onto mine.

"You planned this," he said, not a question.

"Yeah," I said, not denying it. "I planned it."

"Because today was the fourth time they met up," I said.

"You were following them?" John asked.

"There are hotel records," I said. "I know people. July 2nd was the first time, July 4th the second, July 9th the third, and today makes four. But today was different. They didn't go to a hotel."

"Because you were supposed to be out of town today," John said.

"Yeah. I told Laura I was flying to another city for an investor pitch and wouldn't be back until tomorrow," I said, pausing for a moment. "I did that on purpose. I left her an opening.

"If she picked my place, it changes things legally. Catching them in my own home looks a lot better than tracking them down somewhere else."