Chapter 3

Jaydan' s home office was the one place in our apartment that was exclusively his. He always kept it locked, claiming he needed a quiet space to work, free from distractions. "You know how it is with my deals, Addie," he' d say with a charming smile. "Confidential."

Now I knew what he was keeping confidential.

I used the spare key he kept hidden in a book on our shelf-a book I had given him on our first anniversary. The irony was sickening. The lock clicked open, and I stepped inside.

The room was pristine, minimalist, and cold. A large desk, a leather chair, and a wall of shelves. But on one shelf, tucked behind a row of financial textbooks, was a framed photo. It wasn't of me. It was of him and Cuba, laughing, their arms wrapped around each other. It looked recent.

My eyes scanned the desk. His laptop was there, open. He never used a password. He said he trusted me.

It didn't take long to find it. A hidden folder on his desktop, titled "Legacy." I clicked it open.

It wasn't a legacy of his work. It was a shrine to Cuba.

There were hundreds of photos, from their college days to just last week. There were scanned copies of old love letters. And there was a subfolder named "Project C."

My blood ran cold. Inside were documents, meticulously organized by date. For five years, every time I had sent him a project update, a data analysis, or a new pitch deck, a copy was saved here. Beside each of my files was an email. An email from him to Cuba.

"Here's the latest from her. The community outreach data is solid. You can incorporate this into your Q3 presentation."

"She came up with a new algorithm for resource matching. It's good. Use it."

The dates on the emails were chilling. One was sent on my birthday. Another on our wedding anniversary. While I was celebrating our life together, he was in this room, betraying me.

I dug deeper. I found a hidden compartment in his desk drawer. Inside was a small, velvet box. It wasn't the engagement ring he had given me. This one was far more beautiful, a vintage piece with a stunning diamond. I recognized it from photos. It was his grandmother's ring, the Beasley family heirloom. The ring he had told me was "lost" years ago. Tucked beneath it was a jeweler's receipt for the much cheaper ring he had put on my finger. He was saving the real one for her.

My hands were shaking, but not from sadness. It was rage. A pure, clean rage that burned away every last trace of affection I had for him.

He hadn't just stolen my work. He had stolen my life. He had turned my personal milestones into markers for his deceit. My love, my trust, my sacrifices-they were all just tools for his grand plan.

Then I found the last folder. "The Future."

Inside was a draft of a divorce agreement, already prepared by his lawyer. It was dated for the month after Cuba' s company launch. There was also a file with real estate listings for a penthouse downtown, and a flight itinerary for two to Paris.

He had it all planned out. The final act of his performance would be to discard me once I was no longer useful. He was going to leave me with nothing, again.

I thought about the sacrifices I had made for us. The time I sold my mother's last piece of jewelry, a simple gold locket, to pay for a server upgrade for my project. He had praised my dedication, then turned around and emailed the server specs to Cuba.

I took out my phone. I began to photograph everything. Every file, every email, every receipt. I copied the entire "Legacy" folder onto a thumb drive I found in his drawer.

When I was done, I stood in the center of the cold, quiet room. He thought he was in control. He thought he was the master of this game. He was about to find out how wrong he was.

I had the evidence. Now I needed an ally. I scrolled through my contacts and found a name I hadn't spoken to in years, a lawyer who had once worked for my father, a man who owed my family a debt. I sent him a single text.

"I need your help. It's about Jaydan Beasley."