Chapter 4

David' s care was suffocating. He brought me home to our sprawling, minimalist house, a place that now felt less like a home and more like a pristine, empty tomb. He fluffed my pillows, brought me meals on a tray, and spoke in the hushed, careful tones one uses with the terminally ill. Every gentle touch felt like an act of aggression. Every word of comfort was an insult.

I played the part of the broken widow, my face a mask of numb grief. But at night, when the house was silent and David was asleep, a different woman emerged. Fueled by a cold, quiet rage, I would slip out of bed, my leg throbbing with each careful step.

His office was my destination. I knew his passwords; he' d always been careless, prizing his image of a trusting husband over actual security. I opened his laptop, the glow of the screen illuminating my face in the dark.

It didn' t take long. In a hidden folder, buried under layers of corporate files, I found my husband' s other life.

Her name was Victoria Hayes. There were hundreds of photos. Victoria on a yacht, her arm draped around David' s neck. Victoria in Paris, laughing as he kissed her cheek in front of the Eiffel Tower. And then, the pictures that made my breath catch in my throat. Pictures of a boy. A teenager with David' s eyes and Victoria' s smile. His name was Alex.

I clicked open a different folder labeled "Finances." It was all there. A multi-million dollar trust fund established for "Alex Hayes." The deed to a penthouse apartment in the city' s most expensive district, in Victoria' s name. Receipts for private school tuition, for luxury cars, for designer clothes. A river of wealth and affection, all flowing to them.

I thought of how David had complained about the cost of Ethan' s kindergarten, how he' d called it an "unnecessary expense." I thought of the cheap plastic toys he' d buy for Ethan' s birthday, always an afterthought picked up by his assistant.

My mind reeled, a kaleidoscope of memories re-framing themselves in this horrific new light. Every "late night at the office," every "urgent business trip." He wasn' t building his empire. He was with his real family.

I scrolled back through years of emails between David and Victoria. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely control the mouse. And then I saw it. An email from David to Victoria, dated the day Ethan was born.

The subject line was just one word: "Problem."

The body of the email was short. "A complication has arisen. An error. But I will fix it. Nothing will stand in the way of Alex' s future. I promise you that."

An error.

My son, my beautiful, laughing boy, was an error. His entire existence was a mistake David had finally, brutally, corrected.

I leaned back in the chair, the cold leather chilling my skin. The grief I felt was no longer a storm of pain. It was a glacier, vast and unmoving, carving a new path through the landscape of my soul. I was no longer just a grieving mother. I was an instrument of justice. And my work was just beginning.