Chapter 4

The next morning, I skipped work and went straight to a private investigator's office.

"I need everything," I said, sliding a photo and a retainer across the desk. "All financial activity tied to my husband, and every dollar he's spent on this woman."

The PI was experienced. Fast.

Three days later, a thick file hit my inbox.

I sat in a coffee shop and read through it, my hands going cold.

Oliver wasn't broke at all. Instead, he bought Candy a standalone house in one of the city's most exclusive neighborhoods in the south—and he paid for it in full.

The deed was in Candy's name.

He'd also been running fake consulting invoices through his company's accounts, transferring six figures into her account every month under the guise of "advisory fees."

And what's even more ridiculous is that on Lily's emergency contact card at preschool, Oliver's name was scrawled under 'Father'.

The last few pages were photographs.

Oliver with his arm around Candy, Lily perched on his shoulders, the three of them laughing at a theme park, sharing cotton candy in the afternoon sun.

I checked the date on the photo.

It was the same day I'd had a 103-degree fever. I'd driven myself to urgent care and sat alone with an IV in my arm.

I closed the file and finished my coffee in one long sip.

A bitter taste spread through my mouth, but it was nothing compared to the pain in my heart.

That evening, Oliver came home early — which was unusual.

He walked in with a gift bag, wearing his most charming smile.

"I was in a bad mood the other night. I'm sorry." He held out the bag. "I had someone bring this back from Paris — that limited-edition bag you mentioned a while ago, remember?"

He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his hands wandering restlessly under my shirt with obvious intent.

"Honey, it's been a while since we..."

I pulled away and stood up.

"Our seven-year anniversary is next month," I said, keeping my voice flat. "You promised me a real wedding ceremony. We never had one."

When we got married, Oliver had been broke. He'd slipped a soda can pull-tab onto my finger and called it a ring.

His expression stiffened.

"Rosalind, here we go again. We've been married for ages—why bother with all that cheesy stuff?"

"A wedding is just theater. Do you know how much that costs? How many people I'd have to invite? I don't have time for this."

I held his gaze.

"You don't have time for a wedding. But you had time to buy someone a house."

The color drained from his face.

"What — what are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." I kept my voice steady. "The wedding happens. I've already chosen the venue and the dress. All you have to do is show up."

That broke him.

He snatched the designer bag off the table and threw it to the floor.

"You ungrateful—" He caught himself, then kept going. "I work myself to the bone every single day. I provide for you. And this is what I get? You standing there acting like a martyr? You've completely lost it, Ros."

He didn't change clothes. He walked straight back out.

The door slammed.

I looked at the bag on the floor and let out a cold laugh.

Then I opened Instagram on my phone.

Candy had just posted.

A photo of a diamond necklace. The caption read: No matter how busy he is, he always finds a way to make me feel special. Being his favorite feels like this. 💎

I liked the post.

Then I left a comment:

It is pretty nice, isn't it? Bought with my husband's money—of course it's good.