I didn't go home. Instead, I drove to a small cottage on the outskirts of the city—the place where I kept the ugliest secrets of my thirty-year marriage.
Evidence of Duke diverting my shares during the company's early days. Records of his backroom deals with key players over the years. Every gray-dollar transaction, documented down to the cent.
I'd kept it all as insurance. I never imagined I'd actually need to use it.
I pulled open the bottom drawer and tore the old share transfer agreements to shreds. Then I made a call.
An hour later, the information about Stacy arrived on my phone.
Duke had bought her a mansion overseas. Luxury cars. The works.
Nine years ago, they'd had a daughter together. Now Stacy was pregnant again—blood tests confirmed it would likely be a boy.
Over there, they called themselves husband and wife. The neighbors all addressed Stacy as "Mrs. Stephens."
Her social media was filled with hundreds of videos documenting their cozy little family life.
Duke—hair more silver than black now—beaming as he played with their child.
Duke teaching their daughter to write, his face split with joy.
Duke supporting a pregnant Stacy as they walked into an obstetrics clinic.