Chapter 2

The morning after my confrontation with William, I sat in my car outside a small office building in Pioneer Square, my hands gripping the steering wheel. The brass nameplate on the door read "Rodriguez Investigations" in simple block letters. I'd found Marcus Rodriguez through a discreet online search—former Seattle PD detective, specialization in marital infidelity and corporate fraud. His reviews spoke of thoroughness and discretion, exactly what I needed.

The waiting room smelled of coffee and old leather. Rodriguez emerged from his office—a compact man in his fifties with intelligent eyes and calloused hands that spoke of practical experience. He gestured me into his office without unnecessary pleasantries.

"Mrs. Harper," he said, settling behind a desk cluttered with case files. "What can I do for you?"

I placed my phone on his desk, the voice recordings already queued up. "I need you to investigate my husband's affair. I have evidence, but I need more—something that will hold up legally."

As the first message played, Rodriguez's expression remained professionally neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. William's voice filled the small office, intimate and damning: "Baby, I can't wait to see you tonight. The suite at the Meridian is booked under Ellis, like always."

"How many messages?" Rodriguez asked when I paused the playback.

"Seventeen. All recorded accidentally by the car's voice assistant over the past three months." My voice was steadier than I felt. "The woman is Mya Ellis, his project assistant. I saw them together at a corporate gala—he gave her jewelry that he told me was meant for me."

Rodriguez made notes in a small leather notebook, his pen scratching methodically. "I'll need photos of both subjects, their work schedules, any patterns you've noticed. The hotel bookings will be particularly useful—hotels keep detailed records."

I handed him a manila folder I'd prepared. Photos of William from company events, Mya's headshot from the corporate website, copies of William's travel schedules that I'd photographed from his home office. The preparation felt clinical, removing emotion from betrayal and turning it into evidence.

"My retainer is five thousand," Rodriguez said, studying the photos. "Additional expenses for surveillance equipment, hotel records, background checks. This type of investigation typically takes two to three weeks for comprehensive documentation."

"Money isn't an issue." I wrote the check with steady hands, surprised by my own calm. "I need everything—photographs, financial records, communication logs. Everything that proves the extent of their relationship."

Rodriguez pocketed the check. "I'll start immediately. In cases like this, patterns are everything. If they're as comfortable as these messages suggest, they'll have routines we can document."

---

Two weeks later, Rodriguez called. "I have what you need. Can you meet this afternoon?"

His office felt different this time, charged with the electricity of completed work. A thick manila envelope sat on his desk like a loaded weapon.

"They're creatures of habit," Rodriguez said, opening the envelope. "Every Thursday evening, six PM, they meet at the Meridian Spa Hotel. Same suite—the penthouse. They arrive separately but leave together the next morning."

He spread photographs across his desk like tarot cards revealing an unwanted future. William and Mya entering the hotel lobby, her hand on his arm. William kissing her in the elevator, his hand tangled in her hair. The two of them on the hotel's rooftop restaurant, sharing dessert with the intimacy of long-term lovers.

"This one's particularly damaging," Rodriguez said, sliding a photo toward me. William was fastening a necklace around Mya's neck, his expression tender in a way that made my chest ache. "Taken last Thursday. The jewelry appears to be diamonds—expensive."

I studied each photograph with clinical detachment, filing away details that would matter in court. The timestamps, the locations, the obvious comfort they shared. This wasn't a casual affair—it was a full relationship, complete with rituals and gifts and the kind of easy intimacy that William had stopped sharing with me months ago.

"Hotel records show they've been booking the same suite for eight months," Rodriguez continued. "Always under Ellis's name, but your husband's credit card pays for everything. Meals, spa treatments, room service. The total expenditure is approximately forty thousand dollars."

Forty thousand dollars. Money that should have been ours, spent on another woman while I'd been cutting household expenses to help with his supposed business pressures.

"There's more," Rodriguez said, his tone carefully neutral. "Financial irregularities in your husband's business accounts. Large cash withdrawals, payments to shell companies. If you're planning legal action, you might want to consider hiring a forensic accountant."

I gathered the photographs, my movements precise and controlled. "Thank you, Mr. Rodriguez. This is exactly what I needed."

---

That evening, I sat in my home office with my laptop open, researching corporate law and shell companies. William was at another "board meeting"—I now knew he was with Mya at the Meridian, probably ordering room service and planning their next getaway.

My inheritance from my grandmother sat in a separate investment account—money William had never touched because it predated our marriage. Two million dollars that represented three generations of careful saving and wise investments. Money I'd planned to use for our children's education, for our retirement, for our future together.

Now it would serve a different purpose.

I called my financial advisor, requesting the establishment of a shell corporation. "Kennedy Holdings," I told him. "I want to make some strategic investments in the technology sector."

Within a week, Kennedy Holdings had purchased a fifteen percent stake in Harper Technologies—William's company. Enough to demand a seat at board meetings, enough to access financial records, enough to watch my husband's professional life as closely as Rodriguez was documenting his personal betrayals.

The irony wasn't lost on me. I was using my grandmother's money—money earned through decades of careful planning and female independence—to buy my way into the boys' club that had excluded me for eight years of marriage.

William came home that Thursday night smelling of expensive soap and satisfaction, humming under his breath as he kissed my cheek.

"Good day?" I asked, my voice perfectly normal.

"Productive meeting," he replied, already moving toward his office. "The Peterson account is finally coming together."

I watched him disappear into his sanctuary, knowing that in his briefcase were probably receipts from the Meridian, maybe even a gift for Mya that he'd charged to our joint credit card. The man I'd loved for eight years was a stranger, and I was finally ready to meet him as an equal.