As Melissa leaned over the bed rails to squeeze his hand, cooing, *”Don’t worry, my love. We’ll take care of everything,”* my stomach physically turned at the word ‘we’. The sheer brazenness of her presence, parading the fruits of my stolen labor, was nauseating.
But the nausea lasted only a fraction of a second. It quickly faded, replaced by a thrilling, electric anticipation that made my fingertips tingle.
For 4,745 days, I had played the role of the blind, devoted, domestic idiot. Every time Victor claimed he was “working late to close a major acquisition,” I was sitting in my locked home office, downloading his encrypted bank statements using spyware I had installed on his devices. Every time he took a “solo golf trip” to the Bahamas to clear his head, my hired private investigators—paid for through cash withdrawals so small he never noticed—were photographing his meetings with shady offshore brokers and Melissa’s shopping sprees.
