Chapter 4

For the next week, I performed the part of the devoted, slightly fragile wife. I submitted to his fussing, allowing him to bring me tea and rub my shoulders, each touch a brand of his deceit, each whispered reassurance a note in a composition of lies. And with every lie he told, the ice around my heart grew thicker, my resolve harder.

While he was occupied with his performance, I was occupied with strategy. My days were a blur of clandestine activity, my sunlit graphic design studio, with its clean lines and potted ferns, transformed into a command center for a quiet, methodical war.

My laptop was my weapon.

Zara, my assistant, had delivered. She had sent me a password-protected file that was a masterclass in digital excavation. Katia Shepherd's entire life was laid bare. Public records, social media accounts, and, most damningly, a link to a private TikTok account she shared with a small circle of 'friends.' Zara, ever the digital ghost, had located a vulnerability-one of Katia's 'close friends' maintained a public account that mirrored half of Katia's private posts. It was a novice's error. Katia's error.

The username was KatiaTheConqueror.

My hands were steady as I clicked the link. The page was a monument to her narcissism and moral bankruptcy. Video after video of her preening in expensive hotel rooms, flaunting designer bags I recognized as gifts Anthony had claimed to be buying for his mother, sipping champagne in bubble baths.

The Atherton was a recurring set.

In one video, she was wrapped in one of the hotel's plush white robes, holding up a familiar-looking Cartier watch. *"When your married man knows your worth,"* she had captioned it, with a winking emoji. It was the same watch Anthony had given me for our nineteenth anniversary. He must have purchased two.

In another, she filmed him while he was sleeping, his face turned away from the camera. *"My silver fox,"* the text on the screen read. *"He thinks he's in charge, but we know who really runs the show."* The comments from her friends were fawning and encouraging. *"Get that bag, girl!"* *"You're living the dream!"*

My dream. My life. She was performing a crude parody of my existence and bragging about it to her vapid audience.

The worst video, the one that made me want to smash the screen of my laptop, was a 'story time' clip. She sat before the camera, a smug look on her face.

"So, my man's son is, like, totally obsessed with me," she said, flipping her hair. "He's a sweet kid, but a little clueless. He thinks I'm the coolest thing since sliced bread." She rolled her eyes. "He keeps telling his dad he should leave the 'old ball and chain' for me."

She laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "Like, hello? Who do you think put that idea in his head? The best part is, the wifey has no idea. She's probably at home, organizing his sock drawer or something. Poor, boring thing."

A cold, clean rage settled over me, not a flood, but a quiet distillation. I was no longer wounded. I was surgically precise. I downloaded every video, every photo, every incriminating comment. I saved them all to a secure, encrypted drive.

I watched a video of Anthony and Katia laughing together at a Blackhawks game, a game he told me he attended with a client. I saw them celebrating his preliminary award nomination at a Michelin-star restaurant he had claimed was "too stuffy" for a date night with me. The lies were a vast, intricate web, and I was now the spider at its center.

I took a deep breath, my mind clear and sharp. The videos were the centerpiece of my plan, but I needed to control the entire narrative.

That evening, as Anthony was looking over the guest list for the awards gala, I approached him, draping myself over the back of his chair.

"Honey," I said, my voice soft and casual. "I was thinking about the party. We should really invite Jacob's school counselor, Ms. Shepherd. She's been such a positive influence on him. It would be a nice gesture."

He froze for a fraction of a second, his back going rigid. It was almost imperceptible, but I saw it.

"Ms. Shepherd?" he repeated, his voice carefully neutral. "I don't know, Alex. It's mostly a professional event."

"Oh, don't be silly," I chirped, running my hand over his shoulder. "It's a celebration of you, and you're such a family man. It reflects well on us. Plus," I added, delivering the masterstroke, "we should invite her parents, too. And maybe Principal Thompson? Show the school how much we appreciate them. It's good for our community standing."

I could see the panic behind his eyes. He was trapped. To refuse would be to arouse suspicion. He was the great Anthony Ortiz, the community-minded family man. How could he possibly object to honoring the educators who were shaping his son's future?

He swallowed hard. "That's... a very thoughtful idea, Alex." His smile was strained, a tight, painful grimace. "Of course. I'll have my assistant add them to the list."

He thought I was being a thoughtful, clueless wife. He had no idea that he was not extending a courtesy, but rather handing me the gilded invitation to his own public execution.

He turned back to his list, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. He was cornered. And he did not even know the shape of the cage that was closing in around him.

I walked away, the muscles around my mouth feeling strangely relaxed, settled into the shape of a smile he could not see. The guest list was set. The evidence was compiled. The stage was waiting. All I had to do was wait for the curtain to rise.