Chapter 2
The encrypted email popped into my inbox just after noon, a small red flag indicating its priority. I didn’t recognize the sender’s address, but something about the subject line—“Confidential: Review Requested”—sent a shiver down my spine.
I glanced around the empty office, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead a steady reminder of the world outside this digital bombshell. My heart raced as I clicked open the message.
The sender identified himself as David Chen, our CFO. I’d always respected David—his precision, his loyalty, and above all, his quiet integrity. He was the kind of man who spoke only when he had something worth saying.
The message itself was brief, professional, and utterly devastating:
Margaret,
I’ve noticed a recurring pattern in the company’s financials that I believe warrants your immediate attention. Large transfers—$50k+ monthly—have been made to an LLC titled “SP Family Trust” in Phoenix, AZ. The account is linked to your husband’s corporate AmEx.
I’ve attached the relevant statements and transaction logs for your review. If you require further clarification, I’m available to discuss at your convenience.
Respectfully,
David Chen
I stared at the screen, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. SP Family Trust. The initials mocked me—Sarah Parker. My Sarah. My husband’s mistress. My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat.
With trembling hands, I opened the attached PDFs. Row after row of transactions stretched across the pages, each date a fresh wound. My eyes scanned the columns, searching for a pattern, a reason, anything to make this make sense.
And then I saw it—a repeating notation in the memo field: “Consultation Fees.” Fees for what? Services rendered by whom? The questions swirled, taunting me with their lack of answers.
I minimized the window and opened Richard’s corporate AmEx statement. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I cross-referenced the dates. Sure enough, every month, there was a charge for a first-class ticket to Phoenix. Always a Friday departure, always a Monday return. Business trips, he’d called them.
“Business.” The word tasted bitter on my tongue.
I pushed back from the desk, pacing the length of my office. Twenty years. Twenty years of lies. How many times had he held me close, promised me the world, while secretly building a new life with Sarah? With my Sarah.
The thought of her, of them together, was a physical pain. I pressed a hand to my chest, willing my heart to slow, to think.
Think, Margaret. Don’t feel. Think.
I returned to my computer, opening a new tab. A quick search pulled up a number for a private investigator—Julian Croft. His website boasted discretion and results. I didn’t care about his success rate; I cared that he was unknown, untraceable. For now, anonymity was my only shield.
After three rings, a low, gravelly voice answered. “Croft Investigations.”
“Mr. Croft,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. “This is Margaret Hayes. I need your help.”
“Ms. Hayes.” A rustle of papers in the background. “How can I assist you?”
“I suspect my husband is involved in... extramarital activities. I require concrete evidence.”
A pause. “You’ll need to provide more details, ma’am.”
Details. The word stuck in my throat. How could I articulate this betrayal, this humiliation? But I did. Haltingly, through clenched teeth, I told him everything—the transfers, the flights, the lies.
When I finished, the silence on the other end was oppressive.
“Mr. Croft?”
“I’m here, Ms. Hayes.” His tone had shifted, softer now. “I’ll need an address for the... suspected location.”
I rattled off the Phoenix address from the transfer logs.
“Consider it done,” he said. “I’ll send someone to stake out the property. We’ll get you the proof you need.”
Proof. The word echoed in my mind long after I ended the call. Proof of what, exactly? That my marriage was a sham? That my best friend had stabbed me in the back? That I’d been living in a dream world of my own making?
The intercom on my desk buzzed, breaking the spell. “Margaret?” My assistant’s voice came through, tentative. “You have a visitor. Mr. Hayes is here to see you.”
Richard. My husband. My liar.
“Send him in,” I said, my voice cold.
The door opened, and there he stood, every inch the polished CEO. His smile was practiced, reassuring. “Darling, I was in the building and thought I’d—”
“I’m busy, Richard.” I didn’t look up from my screen, couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. “Was there something you needed?”
His footsteps hesitated, then retreated. “No, nothing. I’ll see you at home.”
Home. The word was a lie. We hadn’t had a home in years—maybe ever. But soon, very soon, I’d have my answers. And then, I’d have my revenge.