As darkness began to fall, I was tending to the Phelinopsis orchids on the patio. At that moment, my husband Ethan emerged, dragging a suitcase to the entryway. He was still in a suit, but his tie was slightly loosened. The scent of expensive men’s cologne, tobacco, and the exhaustion of a hard day mingled, overpowering the clean fragrance of the orchids I had meticulously cared for.
After 10 years of marriage, I had grown so accustomed to this scent that I sometimes didn’t even notice it. Much like our marriage, he looked at me. His gaze passed over me quickly.
“I’m leaving. This business trip is important. Some foreign partners have come in and they want a geological survey of a piece of land for a resort in the Hamptons. We’re launching a new project.”
His voice was flat, devoid of emotion or fatigue. It was just a simple notification, like a weather forecast.
I nodded and walked over, pretending to fix his shirt collar.
“Why so suddenly? Fifteen days? That’s a long time.”
Ethan pulled back slightly. It was an almost imperceptible movement of avoidance, but I noticed it clearly.
“This project is top secret, you understand? I need to investigate it thoroughly, and the information can’t leak.”
He took my hand, but his palm wasn’t as warm as usual. He warned me, “For security reasons, don’t call or text me during these 15 days. I’ll have my phone off to focus. I’ll call you as soon as the work is done. The house and the garden are in your hands.”
I smiled. The smile I had practiced for the last 10 years. The smile of a wise, understanding wife.
“All right, you’re going to do something important. I’ll be fine at home, so go on your business trip with peace of mind.”
The clatter of the suitcase wheels on the tiled floor echoed loudly, followed by the heavy thud of the iron gate closing. This luxurious brownstone was plunged into a chilling silence. I stood in the middle of the lavish living room, staring at my reflection in the large picture window.
Ten years ago, I, Eva Reed, was an ambitious landscape architect with my own brand, Reed Landscapes. But because of Ethan’s words, “I need someone to hold down the fort,” I gave it all up and retreated to be a stay-at-home wife in this brownstone. I designed every corner of the garden and poured my heart into every flower. I thought I was nurturing our home, but Ethan’s coldness had become more apparent over the years.
Dinners together at home dwindled, and any affection or concern had run dry. He left early and came home late, and the reason was always work. I blamed myself. Did I do something wrong, or do marriages just wither like this over time? I tried to revive the relationship, but I only got his indifference and sometimes his irritation. Gradually, I grew tired, too, and only silence remained in our house.
This 15-day business trip, and the no-contact request, strangely, instead of unsettling me, only made me feel a cold distance that chilled me to the bone.
Three days after Ethan left, the large house felt unusually empty. I spent most of my time tending to my orchid garden. It was the only peace I could find. The phalaenopsis orchids, the dancing lady orchids, and the purple dendrobiums I had specially ordered from a nursery in Florida were in full bloom.
As I was carefully wiping each leaf, my phone on the table let out a ding. I thought it was a promotional text and ignored it, but a second and third ding followed. I sighed, took off my gloves, wiped my hands on my apron, and picked up the phone.
On the screen were three identical notifications from the bank. My heart skipped a beat. They were transaction alerts from the secondary credit card, Ethan’s black card, the one on my account that I had given him for work convenience. My eyes locked on the phrase: $4,000 charge at Arya restaurant.
Arya. That name was like a needle piercing my eardrum.
Four thousand dollars.
I quickly checked the date and time. The transaction had been made just 10 minutes ago. With trembling hands, I called the bank’s customer service line to confirm. The agent, after verifying, told me firmly, “Yes, Mrs. Reed, a successful payment of $4,000 was made at Arya Restaurant on the Upper East Side, Manhattan.”
The Upper East Side, not the Hamptons.
I hung up the phone and my whole body went cold. The fragrant scent of the orchids suddenly seemed nauseating, suffocating me.
I remembered Arya restaurant all too well. Six months ago, for our 10th wedding anniversary, I showed Ethan an article about this restaurant. I almost begged him, “Honey, let’s have dinner here for our 10th anniversary. They say it’s very romantic and has a beautiful view of the river.”
At that time, Ethan, his eyes glued to the computer, dismissed me without even a glance.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Look at the price. A single meal costs a month’s salary for one of my employees. It’s a place for idle rich people to show off.”
I tried to explain, “It’s just once in 10 years,” but he got annoyed.
“Don’t be so extravagant and frivolous. We can use that money for something more useful.”
His words threw cold water on my hopes. Our 10th anniversary ended with a regular dinner at home. I consoled myself. He’s right. He’s a practical person. He cares about big business, not trivial vanities.
But today, my husband, who was supposedly doing a geological survey in the Hamptons, the same person who asked me not to contact him, was at Arya and paid a $4,000 bill. What client was he entertaining to be so extravagant?
My hands trembled, not from anger, but from the chilling cold that shot up my spine to the top of my head. Had I been living in absolute trust for the past 10 years, or in a perfectly wrapped deception?
I looked at the pure white phalaenopsis orchid in front of me. Beautiful, immaculate petals. But why did they feel so fragile and hypocritical?
He lied to me.
Only this thought was clear, and it stabbed my heart like broken glass. He had deceived me.
After the initial shock came a chilling calm, like when a person is severely injured and the pain comes later and only numbness remains. I didn’t scream or break things. I just went into the house and poured myself a glass of ice water. The cold water went down my throat, clearing my mind, and my brain started to work.
What should I do? Should I call him immediately and scream, “Where are you? What are you doing?” Only to hear another more elaborate lie.
I had already wasted 10 years trusting him. I couldn’t afford to be a fool for another second.
The truth. I needed the truth.
I opened my phone’s contact list and scanned through a multitude of familiar names. Mom, no. My mother has a heart condition and would get sick with worry. I needed someone with a cooler head, someone who could act.
My eyes stopped on the name Chloe.
Chloe had been my best friend since college. Unlike me, who gave up my career at Reed Landscapes to choose family, Chloe was single, a sharp and independent lawyer, and she detested hypocrisy. If anyone could help me at this moment, it was only Chloe.
I called. As soon as it rang twice, Chloe answered. Her voice was as cheerful as ever.
“What’s up? Did the lady of the brownstone suddenly miss her poor friend, or do you have another flower planting project?”
I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice from trembling, but it was still choked.
“Chloe, are you free now? I need your help.”
Chloe’s voice on the other end of the phone immediately turned serious. She knew I wasn’t joking when I spoke in that voice.
“I’m at the office. What’s wrong? Your voice sounds strange. What did Ethan do to you?”
“I’m not sure.” I tried to sort through the fragments in my head. “Ethan said he went to the Hamptons for 15 days. He said it was a secret project and I shouldn’t disturb him with calls or messages.”
“Secret?” Chloe raised her voice. “Smells fishy. What is this, the 1,950 seconds? A secret from his own wife?”
I interrupted her and got straight to the point.
“Fifteen minutes ago, the black card on my account was used to pay $4,000 at Arya restaurant on the Upper East Side.”
There was a silence of a few seconds on the other end of the phone. It was the silence of a lawyer analyzing a case.
“Arya?” Chloe asked. “The French restaurant you wanted to go to for your 10th anniversary last year, and he told you it was extravagant?”
“Yes, that’s the one.” My throat burned.
“That bastard. I told you not to trust your husband too much. Four thousand dollars is definitely a problem. What do you want now? Should I send someone over immediately?”
“No.” I interrupted her again. At that moment, I didn’t need a scandal. “I don’t want to send anyone. I need the truth. You’re a lawyer. You have your methods. Investigate who he’s with there. Arya is a luxury restaurant. They’re sure to have security cameras or a reservation list.”
“Understood,” Chloe replied concisely. “Send me the card information, your account number, and a clear photo of Ethan. I have contacts there. But Ava, are you really okay?”
Chloe’s voice was full of concern.
I looked at my orchid garden. The white petals were still there, beautiful. But why did they feel so luxurious and fragile?
“I don’t know. But don’t worry, I won’t fall apart.”
I hung up the phone. I knew that from that moment on, my life would never be the same.
I don’t know how long I sat motionless on the patio. The sun had set, and only an orange trail remained in the sky, heralding the long night to come. Tonight, the scent of the orchids was no longer fragrant, but felt nauseating and suffocating.
I didn’t eat dinner. In the large house, only the regular ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room echoed. Each tick was like a hammer blow to my empty chest.
I tried to deceive myself. Maybe it really is an important business partner. Maybe it’s a female CEO that Ethan has to entertain. Maybe $4,000 is just a deposit for a large contract.
I tried to cling to that faint hope, but it was shattered when my phone buzzed.
It was around 10 p.m., and I received a message from Chloe. It wasn’t a text message.
“Take a deep breath, sit down, and then open this.”
My hands trembled. I told Chloe I wouldn’t fall apart, but my body was betraying me. I felt the blood drain from my face, and my hands and feet turned cold.
I clicked on the video file Chloe had just sent. It was only 30 seconds long. The video seemed to have been surreptitiously recorded by a customer from another table or extracted from a security camera. The angle wasn’t perfect, but those 30 seconds were enough to end my 10 years of marriage.
It was Ethan. He was wearing the same suit I had ironed for him that morning. He had taken off his jacket and looked relaxed. He was sitting in the luxurious and classic space of Arya. And he wasn’t alone.
Across from him sat a very young woman with long light brown hair and fair skin. She was wearing a wine-colored silk slip dress. I recognized this woman. My heart sank.
It was Charlotte, the new intern at Ethan’s company. I had met her once about 3 months ago when I went to bring him lunch at the office. At that time, Ethan introduced her superficially.
“This is Charlotte. She’s the intern in my department.”
Charlotte bowed politely to greet me.
“Hello, Mrs. Reed. With such delicious food you prepare for him, it’s no wonder Mr. Cole praises you so much.”
In this 30-second video, Ethan was using a silver fork to carefully take a large piece of lobster and place it on Charlotte’s plate. He smiled with a sweetness and affection. His eyes were filled with a deep passion for Charlotte, a look I hadn’t seen in maybe 5 years.
Charlotte leaned back and laughed heartily. Then she quickly leaned over the table and used her finger to wipe away some sauce near Ethan’s mouth. It was a gesture of blatant intimacy. Ethan didn’t pull away. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it.
Thirty seconds. The video ended.
I dropped the phone on the cold granite floor. There was a dry clack.
I had been betrayed. It wasn’t a business partner. It wasn’t a passing fling of a middle-aged man. It was a deep secret relationship. He was using my money, the card I gave him, to wine and dine a girl who was half my age.
I felt pain in my chest, but strangely, I couldn’t cry. The tears had dried up long ago. I felt nausea rising in my throat.
I had given up my brilliant career at Reed Landscapes. I sacrificed my youth to be the stable support for this liar. I tended my own garden, but now I discovered there was a venomous snake in it.
The phone was still lying on the cold floor, the screen already dark. But the 30-second video replayed over and over in my head like a slow-motion movie I couldn’t turn off. Ethan holding Charlotte’s hand, the loving smile, the kiss on the back of her hand. Each scene was like a blade stabbing my already hardened heart.
I slid down the cold wall to the floor. This brownstone, this garden, for the last 10 years, I thought it was my heaven and the result of my sacrifice. It turned out to be just a gilded cage, and I was a bird that had locked itself in while the owner went looking for another younger bird.
The phone rang. This time the caller ID showed Chloe.
I took a deep breath, trying to contain the tremor that ran through my entire body. I picked up the phone and cleared my throat.
“I got it.”
“Did you see it?” Chloe’s voice was urgent and full of rage.
I didn’t answer. My throat was tight.
“That bastard. Ethan. That damn bastard.” Chloe started cursing on the other end of the phone. She could never stay calm when she saw her friend hurt.
“That girl is Charlotte, the intern from the department. Her face looked familiar. What are you going to do now? Are you going to go over there and smash everything?”
“Chloe.” I interrupted her. My voice was flat but devoid of emotion, without tears.
“Huh?” Chloe stopped, surprised, probably by the overly calm tone of my voice.
“Are you at the office now?”
“Yes, I’m here. I was waiting for your call. You are my lawyer, right?”
“Of course I am. What are you saying? I’m your friend.”
I took a deep breath. The coldness started to spread from my heart throughout my spine.
“I don’t need you to be my friend. I need you to be my lawyer. You are a lawyer, right? You need to be colder than me.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. I knew Chloe understood. She switched from the state of a furious friend to the state of a lawyer taking on a case.
“Speak. I’m listening.”
Chloe’s voice had completely changed. It was sharp and professional.
“First…” I stood up and walked to the hardwood desk where the house documents, bank books, and deeds were kept. “Prepare the procedures to immediately freeze all of our joint marital accounts.”
“Freeze?” Chloe asked. “Are you sure? If you freeze them, he’ll find out immediately and call you.”
“He’ll find out,” I replied firmly. “But it will be too late for him to do anything. This brownstone is in both our names. The down payment my parents gave me when we got married also became joint marital property after the marriage. I can’t let him touch the assets.”
I noticed the change in how I named him. My beloved husband, Ethan, had died in that 30-second video. What remained was just a stranger named Ethan Cole.
“Understood,” Chloe replied. “But to freeze joint accounts, we need a valid reason. You need to file for divorce so the court will accept the case, which would give us the legal basis to request an emergency freeze.”
“No,” I said firmly. “Now is not the time to divorce. If I divorce now, I’ll be giving him and that woman freedom. I need another reason. I don’t want to go to court yet.”
I looked around the well-appointed room.
“Chloe, if I report to the bank as the primary card holder that I suspect my husband is committing fraud or using marital property for illegal purposes, would that be reason enough for the bank to temporarily freeze the accounts?”
Chloe was silent for a few seconds.
“Thinking legally, it’s sufficient. The bank has the right to temporarily suspend to protect clients’ assets, especially if you’re a VIP client, but it will cause a scandal.”
“I need a scandal,” I said. “I want him to realize I’m not the idiot he’s been manipulating for the last 10 years.”
I hung up the phone with Chloe. I didn’t allow myself a second of regret or fear.
If the pain doesn’t kill you, it turns you into steel. And at that moment, I felt my heart had hardened more than stone.
Ten years. I was a submissive wife. For 10 years, I stepped back. And this was the price I had to pay.
I immediately looked up the phone number of Mr. Davies, director of preferred client services at the VIP bank. He had been the person who managed my accounts for the past 5 years, always polite with a kind voice, calling me on holidays or my birthday to invite me to investment programs or just send a bouquet of flowers.
Now was the time for those preferred services to be needed.
It was almost 11 p.m., but the phone rang only three times and was answered immediately on the other end. Mr. Davies’ voice was still gentle.
“Mrs. Reed, good evening. You’re calling me at this hour. Is there an emergency?”
I interrupted him. My voice was surprisingly calm, but it brooked no interruptions.
“Mr. Davies, I’m calling about an emergency. I need you to handle two things immediately. First, cancel the secondary credit card immediately. The card number is…”
I clearly read out the numbers of Ethan’s black card, the numbers I had memorized from paying his statements every month.
“Uh, cancel… Cancel it right now?” Mr. Davies seemed shocked. “Ma’am, this is a maximum limit VIP card and Mr. Cole is on a business trip. He might have an emergency.”
“I know,” I cut him off. “And I am requesting the cancellation. I am the primary holder. I have the right. Cancel it now.”
“Yes. Yes. Understood. I’ll take steps to block the card immediately. What’s the second matter?” His voice was already tense.
“The second matter is…” I took a deep breath. “I am Ava Reed, co-owner of the joint accounts.” I clearly gave him the numbers of the three joint accounts, including the checking account, the stock account, and the $50,000 joint savings account. “I request the bank to apply an emergency measure to temporarily freeze all transactions from these accounts.”
This time, Mr. Davies was silent for longer. I could hear him suck in his breath.
“Mrs. Reed, could you tell me the reason? This matter is very complicated in terms of procedure since Mr. Cole is also a co-owner.”
“The reason is…” I emphasized each word. “I, the primary owner of the majority of the assets, have sufficient grounds to suspect that my husband, Mr. Ethan Cole, is using the joint assets for illegal purposes and committing fraud, and he is currently showing signs of liquidating assets.”
Fraud. Illegal. Liquidating assets.
I pronounced these words clearly and concisely. They were the legal terms Chloe had told me to use to force the bank to act in an emergency.
The director, on the other end, was genuinely panicked.
“Ma’am, ma’am, calm down. This matter is very serious. If you say so, according to the client protection regulations, I will immediately notify the system to temporarily block all online and over-the-counter transactions. Please come to the nearest branch tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. to sign the paperwork.”
“Good. I’ll be there tomorrow at 8:00 a.m.,” I replied concisely. “I don’t want a single dollar to be withdrawn from those accounts from this moment on. Do you understand?”
“Yes, understood. I’ll process it immediately.”
I hung up the phone. The room fell into an immediate silence.
I looked at my hand, which was still holding the phone tightly. It wasn’t trembling. For 10 years, I used these two hands to cook, do laundry, plant flowers, and give him massages when he said he was tired. Now, with these two hands, I was freezing everything that was his.
I had cut off his financial channel. I had cut off his retreat. The $4,000 appetizer at Arya was truly expensive. Now it was time for me to serve the main course.
I didn’t know how Ethan would react when his black card was declined and he learned he couldn’t access any accounts, but I knew he would call me soon, and I was ready.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I sat in the armchair on the patio, looking at the orchid garden shrouded in darkness. My mind was just as dark. Every time I closed my eyes, the 30-second video appeared with cruel clarity. Ethan’s kiss, Charlotte’s laugh, and the $4,000 bill were a pantomime, mocking the 10 years of my youth that I had buried in this brownstone.
At 7:05 a.m., I arrived at the door of lawyer Chloe’s office. My eyes were swollen from the sleepless night, and my unmade face was pale. I knew how miserable I looked.
Chloe came out of the conference room. She was wearing a tailored black suit, and her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, making her look sharp and authoritative. Her usual cheerful eyes were gone, replaced by a suppressed rage. She pushed a hot cup of coffee at me without a word.
“Drink it. You look like death warmed over.”
I shook my head. My throat was dry.
“I can’t. Did you finish everything?”
Chloe sat down across from me, crossing her arms.
“I finished. At 8:00, I sent your confirmation paperwork to the bank director. Everything is frozen. His black card is now officially a useless piece of plastic.”
For a moment, a sense of relief washed over me, but it didn’t fill the void inside me.
“Thank you.”
Chloe looked at me with a penetrating gaze.
“Ava, now answer me calmly. I’m asking you as your lawyer. What do you want? Just to give him a warning and vent your anger, or do you want a divorce?”
Divorce. Why did that word sound so strange and painful? For 10 years, I gave up everything to be that man’s wife, putting aside my ambition at Reed Landscapes, and now divorce.
“I really don’t know.”
When I fell silent, Chloe sighed and stood up, pacing the room.
“Look at me. If you just want to give him a warning, frankly, Ethan will come back. He’ll kneel, beg for your forgiveness, and swear that heaven and earth will fall before he changes again. And what? Then he’ll go back to his old ways, but next time he’ll be more secretive, more cunning. You’ll live your whole life in doubt.”
I looked at Chloe. The scene of the kiss at the restaurant appeared again.
“No. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Then it’s divorce,” Chloe said it as a certainty, not a question. “If you decide to divorce, you have to be ready to fight. Ethan is not an idiot. He and his family won’t let you go easily with anything.”
“I want a divorce.” My voice suddenly became clear. “But before I divorce, I want to know exactly what I had for the last 10 years and what he secretly took from me.”
Chloe smiled. It was a cold, calculating smile.
“Good. This is the Ava Reed I know.”
She pulled up a chair and took out a folder.
“I did a preliminary investigation. The biggest asset is the brownstone on the Upper East Side. It’s in both your names.”
I nodded. The house was like a wedding gift from my parents, who had put up most of the money.
“I froze the joint savings accounts and the stock accounts,” Chloe continued. “The problem is he surely has personal accounts. Do you know what his exact salary is?”
I hesitated.
“He told me the company held his salary and bonuses in a deferred compensation fund. Every month, he only gave me $2,500 for household expenses, house management, and garden maintenance.”
Chloe scoffed. It was a laugh of contempt.
“Two thousand five hundred dollars. You believe that, Ava? He’s a senior director in charge of billion-dollar projects, and his take-home pay is only $2,500? He’s been playing you for 10 years.”
I bowed my head.
After that meeting, I went to see Mark, the real estate agent Chloe had recommended. That house, that garden was the passion of my 10 years. But now it was nothing more than a luxurious cage full of lies.
“Sell it,” I said. My voice was dry. “Put it on the market immediately. But we have to sell it fast before he reacts and tries to stop it.”
Chloe looked at me. Surprise turned to approval.
“Good. Very decisive. I’ll call a trusted real estate agent immediately. Now go home, eat something, and get some sleep. It looks like a storm is brewing.”
The storm Chloe mentioned didn’t wait. It arrived that same night.
I was sitting in a daze on the steps by the koi pond, watching the colorful fish swim. They lived in their small world, fed every day, and would probably never know what betrayal was.
My phone, placed on the stone table, began to vibrate. The words “My husband” appeared on the screen, a name I saved 10 years ago, but now it felt like an ineffable mockery. I didn’t answer the call. I just sat and watched as the phone rang, went to voicemail, and rang again as if it were in a fit of rage.
I ignored it and counted. One call, two calls, ten calls.
My phone rang again when I was discussing the quick sale of the brownstone with Mark, the real estate agent Chloe had recommended.
Mark, a polite middle-aged man, felt awkward.
“Mrs. Reed, aren’t you going to answer the phone? It seems urgent.”
I forced a smile.
“No, it’s probably just another spam call. I block these kinds of numbers.”
I put the phone on silent and we continued talking about prices and procedures. But in my mind, I knew the rage on the other end of the phone was growing.
After Mark left, the house fell silent again. I turned on my phone to check.
Sixty-six missed calls.
Sixty-six. What a number. I laughed, but I felt like crying.
Sixty-six missed calls. It wasn’t because he missed me. It wasn’t because he was worried about me. It was because he could no longer spend money.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled through the multitude of missed call alerts. He had been calling me like a madman for 2 hours. He had probably tried to take his mistress shopping after their extravagant $4,000 meal or pay for a five-star hotel stay, but it had failed.
Just then, a new notification appeared: You have a new voicemail.
My heart skipped a beat. What had to come had come. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my hands from shaking anymore, and brought the phone to my ear. I had to listen. I had to know his reaction.
After a beep, Ethan’s voice screamed through the voicemail.
Instead of pressing the redial button in a panic, I went to my messaging app. I changed my profile picture. The photo of the two of us smiling happily on our fifth anniversary was deleted. In its place, I put a photo of myself alone next to a dendrobium orchid in full bloom. I was smiling in the photo.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled through the multitude of missed call alerts again. He had been calling me like a madman for 2 hours. He had probably tried to take his mistress shopping after their extravagant $4,000 meal or pay for a five-star hotel stay, but it had failed.
Just then, a new notification appeared.
In that enraged sound, I tried to search for a trace of regret or concern, but there was nothing, only rage. He wasn’t angry because I discovered his infidelity. He was angry because I cut off his money flow. He was angry because I, the housewife he had always looked down on, dared to humiliate him.
Instead of pressing the redial button in a panic, I went to my messaging app again. I changed my profile picture one more time, making sure there was no trace of him. The photo of the two of us smiling happily on our fifth anniversary was gone. In its place, I put a photo of myself alone next to a dendrobium orchid in full bloom. I was smiling in the photo.
Then I didn’t send a text message, but called him directly. He answered almost instantly, as if he had been glued to the phone, waiting for my call.
“Ava, you—”
He tried to scream again, but before he could finish, I spoke.
“Yes.”
My voice was clear, calm, and cold. My composure seemed to surprise him.
On the other side of my life, Chloe continued her investigation.
“He told you his salary was held in a deferred compensation fund and only gave you $2,500 a month?” she scoffed again. “You believe that, Ava? He’s a senior director in charge of billion-dollar projects, and his take-home pay is only $2,500? He’s been playing you for 10 years.”
I bowed my head.
Later, when I met with Mark again, we talked about the house.
“That house, that garden was the passion of my 10 years. But now it is nothing more than a luxurious cage full of lies,” I told him.
“Sell it,” I said. “Put it on the market immediately. But we have to sell it fast before he reacts and tries to stop it.”
Mark nodded seriously.
“We’ll move quickly.”
Chloe looked at me. Surprise turned to approval.
“Good. Very decisive. I’ll call a trusted real estate agent immediately. Now go home, eat something, and get some sleep. It looks like a storm is brewing.”
The storm Chloe mentioned didn’t wait. It arrived that same night.
I was sitting in a daze on the steps by the koi pond, watching the colorful fish swim. They lived in their small world, fed every day, and would probably never know what betrayal was.
My phone, placed on the stone table, began to vibrate. The words “My husband” appeared on the screen, a name I saved 10 years ago, but now it felt like an ineffable mockery. I didn’t answer the call. I just sat and watched as the phone rang, went to voicemail, and rang again as if it were in a fit of rage.
I ignored it and counted. One call, two calls, ten calls.
My phone rang again when I was discussing the quick sale of the brownstone with Mark. Mark, a polite middle-aged man, felt awkward.
“Mrs. Reed, aren’t you going to answer the phone? It seems urgent.”
I forced a smile.
“No, it’s probably just another spam call. I block these kinds of numbers.”
I put the phone on silent and we continued talking about prices and procedures. But in my mind, I knew the rage on the other end of the phone was growing.
After Mark left, the house fell silent again. I turned on my phone to check.
Sixty-six missed calls.
Sixty-six. What a number. I laughed, but I felt like crying.
Sixty-six missed calls. It wasn’t because he missed me. It wasn’t because he was worried about me. It was because he could no longer spend money.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled through the multitude of missed call alerts. He had been calling me like a madman for 2 hours. He had probably tried to take his mistress shopping after their extravagant $4,000 meal or pay for a five-star hotel stay, but it had failed.
Just then, a new notification appeared.
“You have a new voicemail.”
My heart skipped a beat. What had to come had come. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my hands from shaking anymore, and brought the phone to my ear. I had to listen. I had to know his reaction.
After the beep, Ethan’s voice screamed through the voicemail.
Instead of pressing the redial button in a panic, I went to my messaging app. I changed my profile picture again, deleting everything that had his face.
In that enraged sound, I tried to search for a trace of regret or concern, but there was nothing, only rage. He wasn’t angry because I discovered his infidelity. He was angry because I cut off his money flow. He was angry because I, the housewife he had always looked down on, dared to humiliate him.
Instead of pressing the redial button in a panic, I went to my messaging app. The photo of the two of us smiling happily on our fifth anniversary was deleted. In its place, I put a photo of myself alone next to a dendrobium orchid in full bloom. I was smiling in the photo.
Then I didn’t send a text message, but called him directly. He answered almost instantly, as if he had been glued to the phone, waiting for my call.
“Ava, you—”
He tried to scream again, but before he could finish, I spoke.
“Yes.”
My voice was clear, calm, and cold. My composure seemed to surprise him.
Meanwhile, Chloe continued to dig.
“He told you the company held his salary and bonuses in a deferred compensation fund, and every month he only gave you $2,500?” she scoffed. “Ava, he’s been playing you for 10 years.”
I bowed my head.
I went into Ethan’s study, a room I had barely set foot in for 10 years. He always said it was his private space that I shouldn’t touch. The smell of tobacco and old paper stung my nose. I turned on the light. Everything was artificially tidy.
I opened the drawer of the hardwood desk where he kept important documents. Of course, it was locked, but I was his wife for 10 years. I knew where he kept the spare key: under the money plant in the corner of the room, the arrogance of a man who thought himself clever and thought his housewife would never find it.
I opened the drawer.
The documents were neatly arranged in folders, contracts, insurance, and bank statements from numerous accounts I didn’t even know existed. He told me $2,500 a month was all for the family’s expenses. It turned out it was just the tip of the iceberg.
I sat on the floor and spread everything out. My eyes fixed on the numbers. My already cold heart now felt like someone was squeezing it.
Expense reports in the six figures. Cash withdrawals and entertainment expenses that occurred weekly. And here was his official salary account. The real number was five times what he told me. Five times.
I laughed, but I felt like crying. I lived in a gigantic deception.
I was not his wife. I was a housekeeper who was paid $2,500 a month to take care of this brownstone and this garden, while he was building another home with our money. The money I saved by giving up Reed Landscapes.
The $4,000 meal at Arya wasn’t a mistake. It was a habit. And it was just one of countless performances that I had no knowledge of.
I was so foolish to fall for the “hold down the fort at home.” I trusted the promise of “You stay at home and I’ll take care of everything.” It turned out he was really taking care of everything in his world, a world without me.
I sat in the pile of documents until the first sunlight shone through the crack in the door. The coffee had long gone cold. I felt disgusted, but I couldn’t stop. I had to know everything, and my eyes stopped on a particular transfer record, a recurring transfer.
It wasn’t as large as the other expense reports, only $2,500, but it was as regular as clockwork. My eyes, already dry from the sleepless night, felt pricked by the letters.
Internal transfer beneficiary: Mrs. Rosa Gomez. Amount: $2,500, exactly the same amount he gave me every month.
He was transferring exactly the same amount to another woman named Mrs. Rosa Gomez.
A woman’s intuition whispered to me that this was not a simple problem.
With trembling hands, I moved the mouse and checked the transaction history.
June 15th. May 15th. April 15th.
I scrolled back and my heart began to pound. This was not a recent expense.
I kept scrolling. My mind grew colder and colder.
Two years.
Oh my God. For 2 years without fail. Exactly $2,500 transferred on the 15th of every month.
I quickly took out the calculator and typed: 2,500 multiplied by 24 months.
$60,000.
Who was Mrs. Rosa Gomez?
I searched my memories. A completely unknown name. Not my relative, much less Ethan’s, I was sure. Friend? No one transfers $2,500 to a friend every month for 2 years.
A chill ran down my spine. This was not a mistake, as Eleanor would say. This was not just infidelity. This was a plan, a long-term systematic plan.
He wasn’t just having an affair. He was supporting another woman. He was investing our money—the money I saved by giving up Reed Landscapes—in another woman.
This betrayal was far colder than the 30-second video. The kiss at Arya could be lust, but $60,000 transferred over two years was calculation, intentional deception, and a complete disregard for me.
Who did they think I was? An idiot? An ATM?
I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry anymore. I only felt rage, a cold rage that surged from the depths of my heart. This rage was enough to burn these 10 years of false marriage.
I didn’t call Ethan. I didn’t text insults. I did only one thing. I screenshotted all the transaction records to Mrs. Rosa Gomez, from the first month to the last. I captured the total number, $60,000. I sent everything to Chloe with a single line of message:
“Chloe, investigate who Mrs. Rosa Gomez is and what he supported with our $60,000 for the last 2 years.”
I sent the message.
It was 6:00 a.m. I knew Chloe was an early riser.
I had to shower. My body smelled of hatred and cold sweat from the sleepless night. I stood under the shower. The hot water poured over my body, but I didn’t feel warm. I felt cold to the bone.
Sixty thousand dollars. The number kept running through my head. He took from me. He took from us $60,000.
For 10 years living at home, I was frugal. I refused to buy designer bags. I refused luxury trips because he said we had to save for the future.
It turned out the future he mentioned was his future with another woman.
As soon as I got out of the shower with a towel around my hair, my phone rang loudly. It was a call from Chloe. Her voice on the other end was not that of a lawyer, but of a friend so furious she was losing control.
“Are you sitting or standing now?” Chloe’s voice trembled.
“Standing. Tell me. Do you have the results?” I answered calmly, holding back my wildly beating heart.
“Sit down!” Chloe almost screamed over the phone. “Sit down right now.”
I slumped onto the edge of the bed.
“Mrs. Rosa Gomez,” Chloe took a deep breath as if trying to hold back a profanity. “Sixty years old, from the outskirts of New York. No stable employment.”
“Sixty years old?” I felt more confused. Ethan would never do that. “Who is she?” My voice cracked.
Chloe was silent for a few seconds, then said each word clearly, as if she was afraid I wouldn’t hear her.
“Ava, she’s Charlotte’s mother.”
Charlotte’s mother.
The phone fell from my hand and landed silently on the wool carpet, but something exploded in my ears.
Charlotte’s mother. The mother of the twenty-year-old intern. The mother of the woman in the 30-second video.
Sixty thousand dollars. Two thousand five hundred dollars a month to the mistress’s mother.
I could no longer feel what my emotions were. It wasn’t pain. It was disgust, a nauseating disgust.
He wasn’t just having an affair. He didn’t just make a mistake. He was playing the role of a dutiful son to his mistress’s mother. With my money. With our money.
I picked up the phone. Chloe was still screaming on the other end.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? That bastard was supporting not just his mistress, but her whole family. Two thousand five hundred dollars a month. That woman was living like a queen. He was using your money, the money you sacrificed from Reed Landscapes, to support another family. Ava, are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening.” My voice was strangely calm. “I am listening and I understand everything.”
“What do you understand?” Chloe stopped, surprised by my composure.
“I understood.” I stood up and walked to the closet. “He hasn’t been my husband for a long time. He’s been a thief and a con man. When the truth finally comes out, no matter how cruel it is, people no longer feel pain. They are only left with rage and a single goal.”
“Chloe,” I cut her off. “Prepare the divorce papers. But I don’t just want a divorce. I don’t just want half the assets. I want everything. I’ll make him pay for these 10 years of youth. Principal plus interest.”
I arrived at Chloe’s office at 9:00 a.m. I was not the soulless, swollen-eyed woman from a few days ago. I wore the white suit I used to defend the first Reed Landscapes project. My hair was pulled back and my makeup was carefully applied. I was here not as a betrayed wife, but as a partner coming to discuss an important deal.
Chloe looked at me and her gaze changed from surprise to respect.
“You’re amazing. I was worried you’d lock yourself in the house crying or do something foolish.”
I smiled coldly.
“Crying, Chloe? Tears can’t get back $60,000.”
“Good.” Chloe tapped the desk with a pen. “Then let’s get to work. With this $60,000 proof, we can not only file for divorce, but for fraudulent dissipation of marital assets. If we go to court, you’ll definitely get the majority of the assets. He won’t be able to lift his head. You just have to sign here.”
Chloe slid a folder to me.
Just as I was about to pick up the pen, Chloe said suddenly, “Wait.”
I looked at her.
“No, it’s nothing.” Chloe didn’t look at me. She frowned. Her eyes fixed on her computer screen.
“I asked my paralegal to double-check the brownstone’s information on the property registry for your sale, Ava.”
Chloe’s voice suddenly turned serious.
“Come and see this.”
A premonition worse than when I heard Mrs. Rosa Gomez’s name woke up in my heart. I went over to Chloe’s computer screen. It was the title deed information of my house.
“Look at this.”
Chloe pointed to the small print in the notes section.
“Your house has a lien on it. It’s mortgaged.”
“Mortgage,” I repeated mechanically. “That doesn’t make sense. I didn’t sign any documents. This house was my parents’ money.”
“It’s mortgaged.” Chloe’s voice was like a wedge. “And not for a small amount. He took out a $500,000 loan against it.”
If $60,000 was a slap in the face, $500,000 was a bullet that hit me straight in the head.
“No, it’s not possible,” I screamed. My hard-won composure completely crumbled. “Chloe, a $500,000 loan requires my signature. I’m a co-owner. Never.”
“Calm down.” Chloe grabbed my shoulder and shook me hard. “Listen to me. Look at the date of the mortgage.”
I squinted and checked the date.
Six months ago.
“Exactly 6 months ago,” Chloe said, her voice filled with rage. “Remember, did you sign any strange documents 6 months ago?”
Six months ago. My head was spinning.
Six months ago. Yes.
At that time, Ethan told me the company needed a large capital for an important project. He said it was a golden opportunity. He brought a thick folder of documents and told me to sign quickly, saying they were internal documents and his boss was waiting.
“Oh my God.”
I crumbled.
“I signed. He said it was an internal guarantee document. He pointed to where to sign. I didn’t read. Chloe. Oh, Chloe…”
Chloe slammed her fist on the desk. The boom sound startled me.
“That bastard tricked you. He tricked you into signing a power of attorney or a mortgage consent. He took $500,000 from your parents’ house.”
I didn’t hear anything else.
Sixty thousand dollars he used to support his mistress, and this $500,000. Where did this $500,000 go?
“Top secret survey trip to the Hamptons project.”
Suddenly, I understood everything.
He didn’t go to investigate. He went to finalize that $500,000. He was planning to escape. He was going to leave with $500,000 and his young mistress, leaving me with a foreclosed house and a gigantic debt.
The $4,000 meal at Arya was just the celebration of his successful deal.
“Eva.” Chloe’s voice brought me back to reality. Her face was pale, but her eyes were burning.
“Listen to me carefully. This is no longer just a divorce. This is no longer a civil case.”
She grabbed my hand tightly, emphasizing each word.
“This is a crime. Your husband is a criminal. Fraud and embezzlement.”
I looked at Chloe. The tears had dried up. The pain was gone and only a cold emptiness remained.
“Yes,” I said in an eerily calm voice. “What should I do with a criminal, Chloe? What’s the procedure for filing a criminal complaint?”
Chloe’s voice echoed in the quiet office.
Criminal. Fraud. Penal.
Each word was like a hammer blow to my chest.
Five hundred thousand dollars.
The number was so large it felt abstract. It was no longer money. It was an abyss.
I must have staggered. Chloe quickly held me up and sat me down in a chair.
“Eva, are you listening to me? You have to calm down. Now is not the time to faint.”
Calm down. How could I calm down?
Six months ago, I remembered. I remembered vividly.
Ethan came home, his face full of excitement. He talked about a golden opportunity, an internal investment project that the company only offered to executives. He said it was the opportunity to change our lives and that I would never have to worry about anything again.
He brought a thick folder full of technical jargon that I didn’t understand. He flipped through the pages, pointing to an X.
“Sign quickly. My boss is waiting. It’s just an internal guarantee procedure. We have to trust each other as a couple. Right? Don’t you trust me?”
I trusted him. I trusted him as I had for the past 10 years. I signed without reading a single word. I signed the power of attorney or the mortgage consent. I signed the death sentence of my marriage and my assets.
How stupid I was.
The emotional betrayal hurt me, but this financial deception, this cold calculation to embezzle using my absolute trust, filled me with disgust.
“He is not just a bad husband. He is a professional con man, Chloe,” I said. My voice was dry. “Sixty thousand dollars he used to support his mistress, and this $500,000. What was he going to do with this $500,000?”
Chloe looked at me. Her eyes were full of pity, but also of firmness.
“You still don’t know. He scammed you. He used your parents’ house, your assets, to borrow $500,000. He was preparing his escape. He was going to leave with that $500,000 and his mistress, leaving you with a gigantic debt and a house that would be foreclosed on by the bank.”
I felt my heart stop.
Selling the house. Now, selling this house was not revenge. It wasn’t even to stop the bleeding of marital assets. It was a necessity.
I had to sell this house to the buyer. I needed the 90% cash they promised. I needed that money not to get rich, but to immediately pay off the illegal $500,000 debt to the bank.
If I didn’t pay, the bank would foreclose. And I, as the co-owner, the person who signed under deception, would be the first to be held responsible. I would lose everything. I would lose the house, my parents’ money, and be in debt for life.
Ethan Cole—he didn’t just want to leave me. He wanted to destroy me. He wanted to bury me alive in that debt and shame.
“Ava.” Chloe grabbed my hand tightly. “Listen to me. This fight has changed. It’s no longer just a simple civil divorce case. It’s a criminal case. You are no longer just a wife demanding justice, but a victim who has to fight for her own freedom.”
I left Chloe’s office as if my feet weren’t touching the ground. I don’t know how I drove back to the brownstone. Everything around me seemed to be shrouded in a thick fog. The outside world was still noisy. The cars were still busy, but I was trapped in a glass cage without sound, without emotion.
I slumped onto the steps outside the orchid garden. The $25,000 garden. The garden I was once proud of. Now it was the only thing that could save me.
Everything became suddenly clear, cruelly clear. I connected all the dots.
Six months ago, he tricked me into signing the mortgage documents, and the bank dispersed $500,000. He had the money, a gigantic amount, enough to start a new life. He started spending more blatantly.
This business trip was not a sudden trip. It was scheduled. The 15-day top secret geological survey trip to the Hamptons was a lie, a carefully crafted lie to give him enough time to transfer the money and disappear.
That he took his mistress with him was not because she was the reason. She was just the prize he gave himself after a successful fraudulent deal.
And the $4,000 meal at Arya. Oh my God. I let out a dry laugh.
It wasn’t a client entertainment meal, nor a mistake. It was a celebration. Ethan Cole was celebrating with my money, using our house as collateral, the fact that he had just swindled me out of $500,000. He celebrated his impending escape. He celebrated that I was the fool who didn’t know I would soon be mired in a gigantic debt.
His contempt, his cruelty went beyond the bounds of infidelity. This was calculated evil. He didn’t just want my money. He wanted to destroy me. He wanted me to never hold my head up, to live forever in debt and shame.
I immediately picked up my phone. My hands were no longer trembling. They were cold and steady.
I called Mark, the real estate agent.
“Mr. Mark,” my voice was calm. “It’s Ava. Cancel all other house viewings. I’ve decided I’m selling it to the American client. Tell them I accept all their conditions. I want to sign the papers this weekend. I need the cash. The sooner the better.”
Mark seemed surprised by my determination, but he quickly grasped the situation.
“Fantastic, ma’am. I’ll call them right away. They’ll be delighted to hear this.”
I hung up the phone. I had no other choice. I had to sell.
Selling this house was not for the division of marital assets or divorce. It was to save my own life. He wanted to bury me alive, but he didn’t know I was the seed, and Reed Landscapes would definitely rise from these ashes.
I sat in the brownstone, now an asset waiting to be sold. I turned off my phone. I didn’t want to hear any more threats or false pleas from Ethan. I didn’t want to hear the calculated crying of his mother.
I needed silence.
In that silence, I wondered, what is the man who just swindled $500,000 and is enjoying his business trip with his mistress doing now?
I couldn’t see him. But later, when everything came to light, I knew that even what I imagined was nothing compared to the cruelty of the real facts.
While I was sitting here struggling with a $500,000 debt, Ethan and Charlotte were on a five-star yacht in some distant sea. They were living the extravagant and frivolous life he once despised. They drank the most expensive wine, ate food I never dared to dream of. They spent money like water.
They spent my money.
But all parties have an end. My phone call, the freezing of the accounts, the cancellation of the black card were like throwing a bucket of ice water on their imperial dream.
The black card, the symbol of Ethan’s power, was suddenly declined when he tried to pay for the yacht rental the next day. He was stunned. He took out his second and third cards, but all the joint accounts were frozen.
His rage, the one that manifested in his 66 missed calls, was real. He couldn’t believe his docile wife at home dared to cut off his lifeline.
And the fight began. Not my fight, but theirs.
I could imagine how Charlotte, the young woman accustomed to wealth and luxury, would react when her gold mine suddenly ran dry. The sweet voice of “Mr. Cole” surely turned into a sharp scream.
“You promised you could take care of everything. You said the world would be mine if I stayed by your side. And now what? The cards don’t work. Who’s going to pay the hotel bill? You’re a con man.”
And Ethan, the patriarchal man who always considered himself a king. How could he endure that humiliation? Betrayed financially by his wife and now bitten by his mistress.
I imagined him screaming at her as loudly as he screamed at me over the phone.
“Shut up. If you hadn’t demanded that $2,000 bag, we’d have money for a plane ticket. You’re a parasite who only knows how to spend money.”
Their love, built on my betrayal and my money, was more fragile than seafoam. When the money was gone, only hatred and tearing each other apart remained. The $4,000 party at Arya was their high point, and this was the hell they created for themselves.
I lived in silence for 2 days. In those two days, I organized all the Reed Landscapes documents, the old blueprints, the incomplete contracts. I wiped down every trophy, every thank-you plaque that was gathering dust. I realized that in 10 years I not only lost money, but I lost myself.
I didn’t hear from Ethan. He was silent, and Eleanor was also silent. I assumed they were preparing a bigger storm.
On the third day, as I was preparing the documentation for the house sale, my phone let out a ding. I was so tired of threats or pleas, but this time it wasn’t from Ethan. It was a message from an unknown number. The account name was Charlotte.
I frowned. Her again.
Last time it was a provocative bikini photo. And now what? Had she found a solution with Ethan and wanted to show off that they were still happy?
My first instinct was to block her like last time. But something prompted me. I opened the message.
It wasn’t a photo or a provocation. It was just three words.
“Mrs. Reed, save me.”
I was stunned.
Save me?
What game was she playing now?
I didn’t answer. I didn’t believe a single tear of hers. A person who willingly accepted $60,000 of support for her mother from another woman’s husband was capable of anything.
A few minutes later, since I didn’t answer, a flood of messages came. This time, it was a long paragraph as if she had written it in advance and was just waiting to send it.
“Ma’am, I was wrong. I don’t dare to ask for your forgiveness. Just save me. That man deceived me. Mr. Cole is not human. He’s a demon.”
As I read, I just laughed.
Demon. A few days ago, wasn’t the sophisticated Mr. Cole her gold mine?
“He ran out of money.” That was the next message. “You blocked the cards and he doesn’t have a penny. He hit me. He locked me in the hotel. He said if I didn’t get him money, he would sell me. Ma’am, I’m so scared. I escaped. I’m at the airport now. I don’t have a cent.”
I wasn’t a psychologist, but I could piece together the full picture. The fight on the yacht was over. Ethan, without a penny, revealed his true nature. He was no longer a sophisticated gentleman, but a cornered tyrant, a thug. And Charlotte realized she had bet on the wrong horse.
She didn’t love Ethan. She loved his money. When the money ran out, she had to flee. She was fleeing not only from Ethan, but from the chaos she helped create.
But why was she messaging me?
The last message explained it all.
“Ma’am, I know you’re going to sue him. I have what you need. I have proof. Proof that will make that man unable to lift his head. I can help you. I only ask that you forgive me for the money we received from him. My mother’s sin. I will pay it back. I promise. I just want to live in peace.”
I looked at the phrase, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
She was not my friend. She was a rat fleeing a sinking ship, looking for a new ship to cling to by selling her old partner for a low price. She thought she could use me. She didn’t know I also needed a tool just like her.
I looked at the message.
“Mrs. Reed, save me.”
Just a few days ago, the same account was sending me bikini photos, mocking that I was “older.” This change of attitude today was truly dramatic.
I didn’t trust anything that came from her. A person who gladly accepted $60,000 of support for her mother from another woman’s husband was capable of anything. I believed this was another act, a more cunning trap.
I didn’t answer. I wanted to see what else she could act out. And as expected, when I kept silent, she panicked. A flood of messages came as if she was afraid I would block her.
“Mrs. Reed, please answer me. I know you hate me. I deserve to be hated, but Mr. Cole is not human. He’s a demon.”
I remained silent.
Demon. He wasn’t the sophisticated Mr. Cole, the gold mine she boasted about to the world just a few days ago.
“He ran out of money. You blocked the cards and he doesn’t have a penny. He hit me, ma’am. He hit me. It’s true.”
The next message was a photo, a selfie, but not a pretty face. One cheek was swollen and bruised, and there was a long scratch near her mouth.
“I escaped. I’m at the airport now. I don’t have a cent. I’m using borrowed Wi-Fi to message you. He said if I didn’t get him money, he would sell me. Ma’am, I’m so scared. I was wrong. I was foolish. I just want to go home.”
I looked at the photo. Should I feel pity? No, I didn’t feel pity, only fatigue.
This was the price of greed. She gleefully enjoyed my money. Now she had to pay the price for that party.
But I remained patient. I knew this rat didn’t come to me crying just to vent. She had to have some bait.
And what had to come, came.
“Ma’am, I know you’re going to sue him. I have this. It’s proof that will make that man unable to lift his head. He hid it in the safe in my apartment and I stole it. I only ask that you forgive me and my mother for the money we received from him. I will pay it back. I promise. I just want to live in peace.”
Proof. The coup de grâce.
I raised the corner of my mouth. This rat was quite clever. She knew she had to take insurance when she fled.
I typed. It was the first time I had responded to her. My message must have been as cold as ice.
“What airport are you at now?”
The response was instant.
“I’m still stuck abroad. I just escaped to the airport.”
“I don’t care where you are,” I wrote. “I also don’t care if he hit you. That’s your problem and his. But I’m interested in the proof you mentioned.”
“Yes. Yes, it’s true. They’re double contracts, tax evasion documents. He said it was his biggest secret and that’s how he got rich. He said if it got out, he’d go to jail.”
Tax evasion. Double contracts.
A strange emotion stirred in my heart. It turned out the empire he built, the facade of the sophisticated rich director, was built on the foundation of a crime.
“Monday at 3 p.m.,” I sent a message without hesitation. “My lawyer’s office address: 30 Park Place. Get back to the States however you can. Bring the proof. We’ll talk.”
The final confrontation was set.
I also texted Ethan afterward.
“We need to talk. Monday. 3 p.m. Chloe’s office. Come alone.”
I hung up without waiting for his response. I knew he would cling to this as his last lifeline. He would still think I was stupid, that I still loved him and wanted to talk privately. He would come with the last hope of being able to reverse the situation with crocodile tears.
He didn’t know he was walking straight into his own final judgment.
Chloe’s office at 9:00 a.m. that day was different. The air was tense. I chose a black suit instead of white. I wanted to wear the color of the end. I was sitting there with Chloe by my side. Across from us was another lawyer, Mr. Herrera from J Capital, the investment fund. He had a solemn face and piercing eyes.
Ethan arrived 5 minutes late. He opened the door himself, but upon seeing me, seeing Chloe, and especially seeing Mr. Herrera, he stopped.
His appearance was wretched. His beard was unkempt, his hair greasy, his designer suit wrinkled and smelling of fear and sweat. He was haggard, and his eyes were bloodshot and sunken.
“Ava, honey…” He tried to put on a pitiful voice. He tried to approach me.
“Sit down,” Chloe growled, pointing to the only empty chair in the middle of the room.
Ethan stopped. He looked at me. Looked at Mr. Herrera. He began to realize something was wrong. He awkwardly pulled up the chair and sat down.
“Mr. Ethan Cole,” Chloe began. Her voice was devoid of emotion. “Today we are here to invite you not to talk about 10 years of affection.”
Chloe pressed a remote and the large screen on the wall lit up.
“Let’s get straight to the point.”
Image one: the 30-second video at Arya. The scene where he kissed Charlotte.
Ethan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
“This is—”
“Next,” Chloe pressed the remote.
The bikini photo on the yacht appeared.
“Silence,” Chloe cut him off. “Just look at the screen.”
She moved to the next slide. The bank statement. The words “$2,500” were circled in red. A table calculating the total of $60,000.
Ethan began to turn pale.
Next, the screen changed to the brownstone’s mortgage contract. The number 500,000 was enlarged, followed by the result of the signature analysis.
“The signature of Mrs. Ava Reed is concluded to have been obtained under fraudulent pretenses.”
“That’s nonsense,” Ethan screamed. “You signed it yourself.”
“You still trying to lie?” I opened my mouth. It was the first time since he entered.
“You said it was an internal guarantee document, right?”
Ethan was speechless. He looked at me as if he had seen a ghost.
And finally, Chloe pressed the last slide: the folder of double contracts that Charlotte brought.
This time, Ethan didn’t scream. He just sat there panting. Sweat was pouring down. He knew there was no way to deny it.
At that moment, Mr. Herrera, the lawyer from J Capital, spoke. His voice was low and firm.
“Mr. Cole, I represent the J Capital Investment Fund. We have obtained all these documents. We are officially reporting you for commercial fraud and embezzlement. You have been deceiving us for 5 years.”
“No, Mr. Herrera. I was deceived. That girl, Charlotte, she seduced me.” Ethan turned to me. He tried to crawl out of the chair and kneel.
“Ava, save me. Tell him to stop. Ten years. It’s been 10 years.”
I looked at him. The man I once loved was groveling at my feet. My heart didn’t stir. There was no pity or satisfaction, only an emptiness.
“Mr. Cole,” I said, “you don’t need to beg me or Mr. Herrera. The person you need to talk to is not us.”
Ethan looked panicked.
Just then, the conference room door opened. Two uniformed police officers and two detectives in plain clothes entered.
“Mr. Ethan Cole,” said one of the detectives, showing his badge. “We are the NYPD’s financial crimes task force. We received a report of your tax evasion and fraud. Please accompany us to the station for questioning.”
Ethan was petrified. He looked at the two police officers and then at me. The look was no longer pleading. It was one of pure hatred.
But it was too late.
Two cold silver handcuffs snapped around his wrists. He was dragged past me. My 10 years of marriage, my 10 years of youth, my Reed Landscapes that I had given up, officially concluded with the dry click of the handcuffs.
Six months later, I heard news of him through Chloe. The trial was held and the result was known to everyone.
Ethan Cole was sentenced to a total of 18 years on charges of fraud for embezzling $500,000 from me, fraud against J Capital, and tax evasion. Eighteen years for a lifetime of greed and falsehood.
His mother, Eleanor, could not overcome the shock of her son’s conviction. She suffered a stroke and was paralyzed on one side. I learned from old neighbors that she was now bedridden, crying and cursing, but no one cared anymore.
Charlotte, due to her confession and returning the entire $60,000, received a suspended sentence for her role as an accessory. It is said that she disappeared from the city and returned to her hometown to live another life.
I no longer felt hatred or satisfaction. I just felt that everything had returned to its course. You reap what you sow.
I was standing in my new office. It wasn’t large, a small penthouse in an old building, but it was full of sunlight. The walls were covered with design blueprints. They had been forgotten for 10 years, but my skills didn’t disappear. They were like a seed buried under the rubble of the marriage. Now that the storm had passed, it began to sprout.
Chloe came in with two cups of coffee.
“What’s wrong? You just got the landscape design contract for the entire new riverfront development. Why the long face?”
I smiled and took the coffee.
“I was thinking about what kind of trees to use for the central lake.”
Chloe laughed out loud.
“Seeing you now makes me feel that this is the Ava Reed I knew.”
I looked out the window. The sky was very blue today. People were still busy, but my heart was surprisingly at peace.
I sold my $25,000 orchid garden, but I got back my own entire sky. I didn’t need to do any charity work to prove I was okay. I just had to live well and do my job well.
For 10 years as a housewife, I learned how to tend a garden. Now I would use that skill to tend my life and make other people’s lives more beautiful.
I took a deep breath. The smell of coffee, paper, and the smell of freedom.
My real life had just begun.
