My Husband Forgot To Hang Up, And I Heard Him Tell My Pregnant Best Friend: “Just Wait Until Her Father’s Check Clears, Then We’ll Take The Baby And Leave Her With Nothing

The realization made bile rise in my throat. Every kindness I had shown them was now a weapon they used against me. My infertility, my greatest sorrow, was their punchline.

I looked at my phone again. I needed to delete the call log. I couldn’t let Richard know I had called. If he saw a four-minute call that he “missed,” he would know I heard everything. He would cover his tracks. He would hide the money better. He might even become dangerous.

I took a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that felt too tight. I had to go home. I had to walk into that house, look my husband in the eye, and not claw his face off. I had to be the Laura they thought I was—sweet, oblivious, naive Laura.

But the Laura sitting in the car on the side of the I-5 was dead. The woman who turned the key in the ignition was someone else entirely. She was the daughter of Arthur Reynolds, a man who chewed up competitors for breakfast.

I put the car in drive. The rain was letting up, leaving the city lights reflecting on the wet asphalt like spilled oil. I was going home to a crime scene, but this time I wasn’t going to be the victim. I was going to be the detective, the judge, and the executioner.

Pulling into the driveway of our colonial-style home usually brought me a sense of peace. The manicured hedges, the warm yellow light spilling from the porch—it was the sanctuary I had built. Tonight, it looked like a stage set for a horror movie.

I checked my face in the vanity mirror one last time. I applied a fresh coat of lipstick to hide the fact that I had chewed my lip until it bled. I practiced my smile. It felt stiff, like a mask made of clay that hadn’t quite dried, but it would have to do.

I unlocked the front door, and the smell hit me instantly: garlic, rosemary, and searing steak. Richard was cooking. This was part of his routine. Whenever he felt guilty or whenever he was about to ask for a large sum of money, he played the role of the Michelin-star chef.

“Honey, is that you?” His voice drifted from the kitchen, warm and inviting. It was the voice I used to fall asleep to. Now it sounded like the hiss of a snake.

“I’m home,” I called out, aiming for cheerful but landing somewhere near exhausted. That was okay. I could play the tired wife card.

Richard walked into the hallway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He was wearing the cashmere sweater I bought him for Christmas. He looked handsome. Damn him. He looked so handsome with his salt-and-pepper hair and that boyish grin. He walked up to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I had to command every muscle in my body not to flinch. I had to force myself to stay limp, to let him pull me close.

“You’re late,” he murmured, kissing my forehead. “I was getting worried. How is your mom?”

“She’s fine,” I lied. “Just talkative. You know how she gets about her garden.”

He pulled back slightly, looking into my eyes. For a second, panic flared in my chest. Does he know? Can he see it?

“You look pale, Laura. Are you okay?”

“Just a migraine,” I said, rubbing my temples. “The traffic was a nightmare. The lights were blurring together.”

“Poor thing,” he cooed.

He kissed my cheek, and that’s when I smelled it. Beneath the scent of garlic and his expensive cologne, there was a faint lingering note of vanilla and coconut. It was her perfume—Monica’s cheap drugstore body spray that she loved because it “smelled like vacation.”

He had been with her recently. Maybe right before he came home to cook my steak. He hadn’t even bothered to shower. He was so arrogant, so sure of my blindness, that he walked into our home carrying the scent of his mistress on his skin.

“I think I need to lie down for a bit,” I said. “The smell of the food, it’s a little strong for my head right now.”

“Of course,” he said, the picture of concern. “Go rest. I’ll keep your dinner warm. Do you want some aspirin?”

“No, just sleep,” I said.

I walked up the stairs, feeling his eyes on my back. My legs felt like lead. I entered our bedroom—the room where we had tried to conceive a child for five years—and locked the door. I walked straight to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the sink. Nothing came up, just bitter bile. I turned on the faucet to mask any noise. I splashed cold water on my face, watching the droplets run down like tears I refused to shed.

I needed to know more. The phone call was the smoking gun. But in a divorce involving millions of dollars, specifically inherited wealth, I needed a nuclear arsenal. I needed to know exactly where he was planning to move the money. He mentioned an offshore shell.

I dried my face and walked back into the bedroom. Richard’s iPad was on the nightstand. He usually took it everywhere, but he must have left it charging. My heart rate spiked. I knew his passcode. It was his birthday. Narcissist.

I unplugged it and sat on the edge of the bed, my ears straining for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I opened his messages. He had deleted the thread with Monica. He was careful about that. But he hadn’t cleared his browser history.

I clicked on Safari. My fingers trembled as I scrolled.

Non-extradition countries. Real estate in Belize. How to hide assets in a trust divorce. Paternity test accuracy timeline. And then the most chilling search of all, time-stamped three days ago:

Average life expectancy of woman with high blood pressure.

I froze. I didn’t have high blood pressure. But my mother did. Was he planning to wait for my parents to die, too? Or was he hoping the stress of the divorce would kill me?

I heard the heavy thud of a footstep on the stairs. I quickly locked the iPad, plugged it back in, and dove under the duvet, pulling it up to my chin. I feigned sleep, my breathing shallow and even.

The doorknob turned.

“Laura,” he whispered.

I didn’t move. He stood there for a moment, watching me. I could feel his presence like a dark shadow in the room. Then I heard the soft ping of a notification from the iPad. He walked over, picked it up, and I heard the tapping of his fingers.

“Sleep tight, cash cow,” he whispered so low I almost didn’t hear it.

He closed the door.

I opened my eyes in the darkness. He thought I was sleeping. He thought I was the cash cow—but he forgot that cows have horns, and when they are cornered, they stampede.

The next morning, the doorbell rang at 10:00 a.m. sharp. It was Monica. I had barely slept. My eyes felt gritty, but I had applied extra concealer and put on a crisp white blouse. Armor. I needed armor.

Richard had left for work early, which probably meant he was looking at real estate listings or meeting with a shady accountant. So it was just me and the woman carrying my husband’s child.

I opened the door and there she was. She looked glowing. I had to admit, pregnancy suited her. She was wearing one of the oversized cashmere sweaters I had bought her two weeks ago. It cost four hundred dollars. She had spilled coffee on it already.

“Laura!” she squealed, leaning in for a hug.

I held my breath as her body pressed against mine. I could feel the hard bump of her stomach against my waist. It took every ounce of willpower not to shove her backward down the porch steps.

“Hi, Monica,” I said, my voice tight. “Come on in.”

We sat in the sunroom. I poured her a cup of decaf herbal tea, the expensive blend she liked.

“So,” she said, blowing on the steam. “How are you? Richard texted me that you had a migraine last night. You poor thing. You really need to take better care of yourself. At your age, stress can be dangerous.”

At your age. The first dig of the morning.

“I’m fine,” I said, taking a sip of my black coffee. “Just a lot on my mind. Richard and I were talking about the future.”

I saw her hand pause midair.

“Oh? What about the future?”

“Well,” I lied smoothly. “I was thinking about the inheritance coming in from my dad. It’s a lot of money to manage. I was telling Richard maybe we should just donate a huge chunk of it, start a new foundation, you know, give back to the world instead of hoarding it.”

Monica choked on her tea. She coughed violently, setting the cup down with a clatter.

“Donate it? All of it?”

“Not all of it.” I smiled, a shark-like baring of teeth. “But most. Richard and I don’t have children. We don’t have anyone to leave a legacy to. Why keep millions sitting around when we live so simply?”

Panic flitted across her eyes. She rubbed her belly unconsciously, a protective gesture.

“But Laura, surely you want to keep some for security. Or what if you guys try for a baby again? Surrogacy is expensive.”

“No,” I sighed, looking out the window at the garden. “Richard thinks I’m too old, and honestly, maybe he’s right. Maybe some bloodlines just aren’t meant to continue. Besides, karma has a way of working things out. If you do good, you get good. If you lie and cheat… well, you end up with nothing.”

I turned my gaze back to her. I locked eyes with her. For a second, the air in the room went still. I saw a flicker of genuine fear in her pupils. Did she know I knew?

Then she forced a laugh, high and brittle.

“Wow, that’s heavy for a Wednesday morning. You’re so noble, Laura. But Richard—does he agree? He works so hard. He deserves to enjoy that money.”

“Richard agrees with whatever I say,” I said coldly. “He knows who holds the purse strings.”

Monica shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Well, speaking of babies, the little guy is kicking up a storm today.” She lifted her sweater slightly, showing off the curve of her belly. “Do you want to feel?”

It was a power move. A cruel, twisted power move to remind me of what she had and I didn’t. She thought it would make me cry. She thought I would crumble.

I stared at her exposed skin. That was my husband’s child. Half of his DNA was knitting together inside her.

“No thanks,” I said flatly. “I’m not really a baby person anymore. I think I’m over it.”

Monica looked stunned. I was supposed to be the weeping, desperate, infertile woman. My indifference threw her off script.

“Oh. Okay.” She pulled her sweater down. “Well, I just wanted to remind you about the baby shower next month. I know it’s a lot to ask, but since you offered to host—”

“I’m still hosting,” I interrupted. “In fact, I want to make it bigger. Let’s invite everyone. Richard’s colleagues, my family, all our mutual friends. Let’s make it a massive celebration.”

Monica’s eyes lit up. Greed. She loved being the center of attention, especially on my dime.

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I want to give you a party that no one will ever forget.”

She beamed, oblivious to the threat hidden in my promise.

“You’re the best friend ever, Laura. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You’d be broke and alone, I thought.

“I have to run,” I said, standing up abruptly. “I have a meeting with my financial advisor to discuss the donation.”

Monica stood up so fast she nearly knocked the chair over.

“Right. Yes. Don’t do anything rash though, okay? Talk to Richard first.”

“I always talk to Richard,” I said, walking her to the door.

As she walked to her beat-up Honda Civic—which I knew Richard was planning to replace with a Range Rover using my money—I pulled out my phone. I dialed the number for the best forensic accountant in the state.

“This is Laura Reynolds,” I said when the receptionist answered. “I need to book an urgent consultation. I suspect high-level marital fraud and asset dissipation, and I need a team who can work quietly.”

The game was on. Monica wanted a party. I was going to give her a spectacle.

The forensic accountant, a man named Mr. Henderson with glasses thick enough to see into the future, had given me a checklist. Get the hard drive. Get the tax returns. Check the credit reports.

Two days after Monica’s visit, Richard went on an overnight “business trip” to Portland. I knew he wasn’t in Portland. The Find My iPhone feature he thought he had disabled on our shared Family Cloud account showed his iPad—which he took with him—pinging at a luxury resort two hours north. And guess whose phone was pinging at the same location?

Monica’s.

I didn’t cry this time. I felt a cold, clinical precision taking over. I waited until I was sure they were settled in. Then I went into Richard’s home office. He kept it locked, but I had the master key to every door in this house. I paid for the locks, after all.

The room smelled of stale coffee and secrets. I sat at his massive mahogany desk, another gift from me, and booted up his desktop computer. Password-protected, of course.

I tried his birthday. Incorrect.
I tried our anniversary. Incorrect.
I tried “Monica.” Incorrect.

I paused, thinking. Richard was arrogant, but he was also sentimental about his triumphs. I typed in the due date of Monica’s baby.

Access granted.

 

A shiver of revulsion went down my spine, but I ignored it. I plugged in the external hard drive Mr. Henderson had given me. While the data transferred, I started opening folders.

The folder labeled “Project Phoenix” caught my eye. I clicked it. It wasn’t a business plan. It was an exit strategy.

There were PDFs of brochures for villas in Costa Rica. There were bank statements for an account I didn’t know existed—an account under the name of a shell company called Phoenix Consulting. I opened the statements. My breath hitched.

Transfer: $5,000 – “Consulting fee.”
Transfer: $12,000 – “Marketing services.”
Transfer: $25,000 – “Seed capital.”

I cross-referenced the dates with our joint checking account. Every time Richard had asked me for money for his “startup costs” or “overhead,” he had immediately funneled it into this private account.

And the withdrawals:

$1,500 – Tiffany & Co.
The bracelet I saw Monica wearing last week.

$2,800 – The Stork’s Nest Luxury Baby Gear.
$3,200 – Emerald City Obstetrics.

He was funding her entire lifestyle and their future getaway with my money. The total amount siphoned over the last two years was nearly $280,000.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

I found a digital folder labeled “Legal.” Inside was a draft of a custody agreement—for me. I opened it, confused. Why would there be a custody agreement? We didn’t have children.

I read the text, and the blood froze in my veins. It was a petition for involuntary commitment. Richard had been documenting “evidence” of my mental instability. He had notes about my mood swings from the hormones I took during IVF, my depression grieving my miscarriages, and my “paranoia.”

Plan A: divorce her after the trust fund clears.
Plan B: if she fights the prenup, prove she is mentally incompetent to manage her estate. Have Richard appointed as conservator.

He wasn’t just going to leave me if I fought back. He was planning to have me locked up and take control of my fortune that way. He wanted to pull a Britney Spears on me.

I sat back in the leather chair, staring at the glowing screen. The cruelty was bottomless. This man whom I had nursed through the flu, whose debts I had paid, whose ego I had stroked for a decade—he looked at me and saw nothing but an ATM machine he needed to hack.

The hard drive beeped. Transfer complete.

I pulled the drive out and slipped it into my bra. I shut down the computer. I wiped my fingerprints off the keyboard and the desk surface. I stood up and looked around the room. I wanted to smash everything. I wanted to take a golf club to his monitors, but I couldn’t. Not yet. I needed the big money to drop. I needed them to think they had won.

I walked out of the office and locked the door. My hands were shaking, but not from fear anymore. They were shaking with the adrenaline of the hunt.

I went downstairs and poured myself a glass of wine. I sat in the dark living room and dialed my father.

“Dad,” I said when he picked up.

“Laura, is everything okay? It’s late.”

“No, Dad. Everything is wrong. But I need you to listen to me, and I need you to not get angry. I need you to help me destroy him.”

There was a pause on the line. Then Arthur Reynolds’ voice came through, low and dangerous as a growling tiger.

“Tell me everything.”

My parents’ estate was an hour away, a sprawling property on the waterfront that Richard always coveted. He used to walk the grounds and say, “One day this will be ours.” I used to think he meant it as a shared legacy. Now I knew he meant it as a conquest.

I sat in my father’s study the next day. The room was lined with books and smelled of old paper and pipe tobacco. My mother, Catherine, sat next to me on the leather sofa, holding my hand. She hadn’t said a word since I played the recording of the phone call and showed them the documents from the hard drive. She just held my hand, her grip surprisingly strong.

My father stood by the window, looking out at the gray ocean. He was seventy years old, but he still had the posture of a general.

“Involuntary commitment,” he repeated, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “He was going to try to declare you insane to get control of the assets if the divorce got messy.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “He knew the prenup protects the principal of the trust, but not the income generated during the marriage if he controls the accounts.”

“I should kill him,” my father said simply.

He turned around and his eyes were cold.

“I have friends, Laura. He could just disappear.”

“No,” I said. “That’s too easy. And I don’t want you going to jail for a worm like him. I want him to suffer. I want him to think he’s won the lottery and then realize the ticket is fake. I want him to be humiliated in front of everyone he tried to impress. And I want Monica to realize she bet on a losing horse.”

My mother finally spoke.

“The trust distribution,” she said. “That’s what they are waiting for. The five million.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Next month.”

“We stop it,” my father said. “I’ll call the lawyers. We freeze everything.”

“If we freeze it now, he’ll know,” I argued. “He’ll panic. He’ll hide the assets he’s already stolen—the $280,000. He’ll delete the evidence. He’ll spin the narrative that I’m the crazy one. I need to catch him in the act of trying to steal the big pot.”

My father sat down at his desk, steepling his fingers.

“So, you want to trap him?”

“I want to dangle the carrot,” I said. “I want to make the carrot bigger. Five million is good, but ten million—ten million makes people sloppy.”

My father smiled, a slow, predatory grin that I recognized from his business negotiation days.

“You want me to restructure the trust, or at least pretend to?”

“Exactly,” I said. “Tell him you’re so impressed with how he’s handled whatever fake business he talks to you about that you want to move the assets early, but to avoid taxes, we need to move it into a joint investment vehicle.”

“Something he has to sign for,” my father mused. “A liability trap. We set up a shell company. We make it look like an investment fund. We transfer assets into it, but actually we transfer debt, or we make him sign a personal guarantee for a loan to buy into the fund.”

“Make him sign a personal guarantee for a ten-million-dollar credit line,” I suggested. “Tell him it’s to leverage the investment. He’ll sign anything if he thinks he gets access to the cash.”

“And once he signs that guarantee,” my father continued, “we call the loan. He’ll be personally liable for ten million he doesn’t have.”

“He’ll be bankrupt,” I said. “And this time I won’t be there to bail him out.”

My mother squeezed my hand.

“And the girl, Monica,” she said. “She wants a baby shower.”

“I’m going to give her one,” I said, my voice hardening. “That’s where we drop the hammer. I want the papers served there. I want the revelation to happen there.”

My mother nodded.

“I’ll handle the catering. We’ll make sure it’s an event to remember.”

We spent the next three hours mapping out the details. Project Green Inheritance was born. We drafted the fake legal documents. My father called his most vicious lawyer, a man named Sterling, who scared even me, to prepare the real divorce filing and the fraud lawsuit.

When I left my parents’ house that evening, I felt lighter than I had in years. The victim was gone. The architect of their destruction was driving the car.

I texted Richard.

“Great meeting with Dad. He wants to talk to you about a massive opportunity. Hurry home.”

I saw the three dots of his reply appear instantly.

“On my way. Love you.”

Love me. Right. He loved the smell of money. And he was about to catch a whiff of the biggest meal he’d ever choke on.

That evening, I set the stage. I opened a bottle of vintage Cabernet, one Richard had been saving for a “special occasion.” I lit candles. I put on the jazz playlist he liked to pretend he understood.

When he walked in, he looked flushed. He had probably driven ninety miles an hour to get here after my text.

“Laura!” he called out, dropping his keys. “What’s all this?”

“Celebration,” I said, handing him a glass of wine. I was wearing my best silk robe. I had to sell the fantasy. “I talked to Dad today. Really talked to him—about us, about your potential.”

Richard’s eyes widened. He took the glass, his fingers brushing mine.

“And?”

“And he agrees with me,” I said, leading him to the sofa. “He thinks he’s been too hard on you. He thinks you’re ready for the next level.”

I took a deep breath, channeling every ounce of acting skill I possessed.

“Dad wants to liquidate the Blue Water trust—the one with the five million.”

Richard nodded, trying to look calm, but I saw the pulse jumping in his neck.

“Okay. And… distribute it to you?”

“No,” I said. “He wants to double it. He wants to combine it with his personal liquidity fund. Ten million, Richard. He wants to transfer it into a new management LLC, and he wants you to be the managing partner.”

Richard stopped breathing. I literally saw him stop breathing.

“Ten million,” he choked out. “Control. Power. Managing partner… me?”

“Yes,” I beamed. “He says he’s getting too old to micromanage these aggressive funds. He needs young blood. He wants to set it up next week. But…”

I paused, looking worried.

“But what?” Richard leaned forward, his hunger palpable.

“He needs you to sign some heavy paperwork. Since you’d be the managing partner, you’d have to sign the liability waivers and the capital guarantees. It’s standard stuff, Dad says, just to keep the IRS off our backs. But it puts you legally in charge.”

“I can handle it,” Richard said immediately. He didn’t even ask what a capital guarantee entailed. He just heard “legally in charge.” “I’ve handled complex deals before, Laura. You know that.”

“I know.” I touched his cheek. “I told him you were the smartest man I know. We’re going to be so rich, Richard. We can finally buy that villa in Tuscany you always talk about. We can do anything.”

He grabbed me and kissed me. It was a passionate, fervent kiss. But it wasn’t for me. It was for the ten million.

I kissed him back, thinking about how much I was going to enjoy watching him sign his life away.

“I need to make a call,” he said, pulling away abruptly. “Just checking on a client to clear my schedule for next week.”

“Go ahead, darling,” I smiled.

 

He practically ran into the hallway. I stayed on the sofa and quietly picked up the baby monitor receiver I had hidden under a stack of magazines. I had placed the transmitter in the hallway planter earlier that day. I put the receiver to my ear.

“Monica, listen to me,” Richard’s voice was a frantic whisper. “We have to wait. No, shut up and listen. It’s ten million. Ten million. Double the payout.”

Pause. Monica must have been screaming on the other end.

“I know, I know you want to leave now,” Richard hissed. “But can you imagine the difference between five and ten? We can live like royalty. We never have to work again. Just hold on. Two more weeks. The paperwork gets signed next week. Once the funds hit the LLC, I wire it out and we are ghosts.”

Pause.

“I love you, too. Look, buy yourself something nice. Buy that car you wanted. Put it on the emergency card. It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re going to be richer than God.”

He hung up.

I set the receiver down. My hands were steady. He was going to wire the funds out. He thought he was going to empty the account. He didn’t know that the account he would be given access to would be a restricted escrow account, and the wire transfer he attempted would trigger the immediate enforcement of the personal guarantee. He was going to attempt grand larceny, and in doing so, he would trigger a debt that would bury him.

He walked back into the living room, a smile plastered on his face.

“All sorted,” he said. “My schedule is clear. I’m all yours.”

“To us,” I said, raising my glass.

“To us,” he replied, clinking his glass against mine.

To me, I thought, and to the hell I’m about to rain down on you.

The week leading up to the signing was a masterclass in psychological torture. Richard was on his best behavior, playing the doting husband so intensely it was nauseating. But Monica—Monica was cracking.

I invited them both to dinner at a high-end seafood restaurant downtown. I told them it was a pre-celebration for the big business deal. I wanted to see them in the same room. I wanted to see the tension.

Monica arrived wearing a tight dress that accentuated her bump. She looked tired. Her ankles were swollen. Richard, meanwhile, was glowing, wearing a new suit he had undoubtedly bought with my money.

“You look exhausted, Mon,” I said as we sat down. “Doesn’t she, Richard?”

Richard barely glanced at her. He was too busy looking at the wine list.

“She looks fine. So, Laura, did your dad mention the notary date?”

“Tuesday. Tuesday,” I said. “But let’s not talk business yet. Let’s talk about the baby. Monica, you must be so excited.”

Monica glared at Richard.

“I am, but it’s hard doing it alone. You know, without a partner to help with the heavy lifting.”

It was a direct shot at Richard.

“Well, you have us,” I said, patting her hand. “Richard has been so helpful, haven’t you, honey? He’s been looking at nursery themes with me.”

Richard froze. He hadn’t been looking at nursery themes with me. I was lying. But he couldn’t deny it without looking like a bad husband in front of the money source, and he couldn’t agree without pissing off Monica.

“I just glanced at a few,” Richard stammered.

“He wants a jungle theme,” I told Monica, “which is funny because I remember you saying you wanted a jungle theme for your baby. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

Monica’s fork clattered onto her plate. She turned to Richard, her eyes blazing.

“You’re looking at nursery themes for her guest room?”

“It’s just talk,” Richard said quickly, sweating. “Laura, let’s order. The lobster looks amazing.”

“I want the lobster,” Monica said petulantly. “And the caviar.”

“Get whatever you want,” I said. “It’s on me.”

 

Throughout the dinner, I kept the spotlight on Richard’s “success” and how much I relied on him. I talked about how we were planning a second honeymoon to the Maldives next month.

“The Maldives?” Monica interrupted. “I thought you couldn’t fly because of your blood pressure.”

I looked at her, confused.

“My blood pressure is perfect. Why would you think that?”

Monica looked at Richard. Richard looked at his plate. He had obviously told her the lie about my health to keep her hopeful that I might die soon.

“Oh,” Monica mumbled. “I must have misunderstood.”

“Richard is taking me to the Maldives,” I continued, twisting the knife. “It’s going to be so romantic. Just the two of us reconnecting.”

I saw Monica reach under the table. A second later, Richard flinched and jerked his leg. She had kicked him.

“Actually,” Richard said, his voice high and tight. “Maybe we should wait on the trip, Laura, with the new business. I’ll be very busy.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “We can celebrate. Unless… is there a reason you can’t go?”

“No,” Richard said, miserable. “No reason.”

Monica suddenly stood up.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

She stormed off.

“You should go check on her, Richard,” I said innocently. “She seems hormonal. You’re so good with people.”

“I… I should stay here with you,” he said. He was terrified to leave me alone, terrified I’d suspect something. He was prioritizing the money over his pregnant mistress. I watched him make that choice. He chose the ten million over his unborn child and the woman he claimed to love.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Go. I’ll order dessert.”

He hesitated, then got up and walked toward the restrooms.

I waited five seconds, then followed them. I didn’t go into the bathroom. I stood in the corridor near the alcove where the pay phones used to be. I heard hushed, angry whispering coming from the hallway near the emergency exit.

“You are humiliating me,” Monica hissed. “Talking about honeymoons, jungle themes. You’re playing house with her while I’m carrying your kid.”

“Keep your voice down,” Richard snapped. “Do you want to blow this? It’s ten million, Monica. For ten million, I will dance a jig in a tutu if she asks me to. Just shut up and eat your lobster. In two weeks, she’s history.”

“I hate her,” Monica sobbed. “I hate her so much. She sits there so smug, throwing her money around.”

“She’s a fool,” Richard said. “She’s a pathetic, lonely fool. And we are going to bleed her dry. Now wipe your face and get back out there. We are almost at the finish line.”

I stepped back into the shadows as they composed themselves. We are almost at the finish line, he said. He was right. But he didn’t realize that the finish line was actually the edge of a cliff, and I was the one who had greased the edge.

I went back to the table and sat down. When they returned, I was smiling.

“I ordered the chocolate lava cake,” I said. “It’s going to be explosive.”

 

The dinner with Richard and Monica had confirmed their greed, but in the eyes of the law, greed isn’t a crime. Adultery, however, in our state and under the ironclad terms of our prenuptial agreement, was a breach of contract that could strip Richard of any claim to spousal support. But I needed more than just a recording of a phone call, which a good lawyer could argue was obtained illegally or taken out of context.

I needed biological proof. I needed to tie Richard to that baby with a knot so tight even Houdini couldn’t slip out of it. I needed his DNA, and I needed hers.

Richard was easy. I pulled hairs from his hairbrush every morning just out of habit, to keep the sink clean. But Monica? Monica was the challenge.

Two days after the dinner, I texted Monica.

“Hey, I found some incredible vintage maternity clothes in the attic that my mom saved. Chanel, Dior—they would look amazing on you. Want me to drop them by?”

The trap was baited with vanity. Monica couldn’t resist high-end labels. She texted back immediately.

“OMG, yes. I’m at the apartment. Come over.”

The apartment. The “bachelorette pad” she claimed she was renting with her savings. In reality, it was a $3,500-a-month condo in Bellevue that Richard paid for using funds siphoned from my retirement account.

I drove over with a garment bag full of clothes I had bought at a thrift store and dry-cleaned to look expensive. When she opened the door, the smell of the place hit me. It smelled like him. His cologne was in the air. His shoes were by the door. It was a second home—a shadow life they were living right under my nose.

“Laura!” She hugged me, her eyes immediately darting to the garment bag. “You are a lifesaver. Nothing fits me anymore.”

“Happy to help,” I smiled, stepping inside. “Can I use your restroom? That coffee went right through me.”

“Sure, down the hall,” she said, already unzipping the bag to get to the “Chanel.”

I walked into the bathroom. It was masterfully cluttered with her beauty products. And there, in a ceramic cup by the sink, were two toothbrushes—one pink, one blue. I pulled a Ziploc bag from my purse. I grabbed the blue toothbrush—Richard’s. I knew the brand. He had sensitive gums. I bagged it. Then I grabbed a hairbrush full of long blonde strands from the counter. Monica’s. I bagged that, too.

But I needed something directly linking the pregnancy to Richard. A toothbrush proves he sleeps here, not that he’s the father. I opened the cabinet under the sink. Nothing but towels. I checked the small trash can in the corner. It was mostly tissues and makeup wipes. I dug a little deeper, ignoring the revulsion rising in my throat.

And there it was: a crumpled piece of thermal paper. I smoothed it out. It was a receipt from the OB-GYN clinic from three days ago.

Emerald City Obstetrics.
Patient: Monica Stevens.
Guarantor/Responsible party: Richard Vance.
Service: 24-week ultrasound.

He had signed for it. He had literally put his name on the financial responsibility form for the ultrasound. He was so arrogant, so sure I would never see this, that he didn’t even use cash.

I took a photo of the receipt and then slipped the original into my pocket.

“Everything okay in there?” Monica called out.

“Just washing my hands,” I chirped.

I flushed the toilet for effect and walked out. Monica was holding up a silk blouse against her chest in the hallway mirror.

“This is gorgeous,” she said. “Is it real vintage?”

“It is,” I lied. “It looks perfect on you. Wear it to the party.”

 

“I will,” she beamed. “By the way, Richard said the business deal is happening Tuesday. He seems stressed but excited.”

“He is,” I said, walking to the door. “He’s about to become a very powerful man, Monica. We should all be ready for changes.”

“I’m ready,” she said, rubbing her belly. “I was born ready.”

I drove straight to the private lab my lawyer Sterling had recommended. I handed over the Ziploc bags and the receipt.

“I need a rush on this,” I told the technician. “I need a paternity profile and a comparative analysis. I need to know that the DNA on this blue toothbrush matches the DNA of the father and I need it to match the husband.”

“We can have a preliminary match in forty-eight hours,” the technician said. “But for court-admissible—”

“I don’t need it for court yet,” I interrupted. “I need it for a video presentation.”

He looked at me, confused, but took the credit card.

Driving home, I felt a strange sense of calm. The pieces were locking into place. I had the financial trap set with my father. I had the social trap set with the party. And now I had the biological trap.

Richard came home that night whistling. He kissed me on the cheek.

“Big day tomorrow with your dad,” he said. “I’ve been reviewing the prospectus.”

“You’re going to do great,” I said, stroking his lapel. “Just make sure you sign everything. Dad hates hesitation.”

“I won’t hesitate,” Richard promised.

He had no idea. He was about to sign his own death warrant, and he was whistling while he did it.

Tuesday morning arrived with a gray, ominous sky, the kind of Seattle weather that usually made Richard complain about his joints. But today, he was electric. He spent an hour in front of the mirror adjusting his tie, checking his teeth. He looked like a man preparing to accept an Oscar.

“Do I look like a managing partner?” he asked, turning to me.

“You look like a ten-million-dollar man,” I said.

It wasn’t a lie. That was exactly the amount of debt he was about to incur.

We drove to my father’s office in the city. The Reynolds building was a steel-and-glass monolith that Richard always stared up at with envy. Today, he walked in like he owned it.

My father, Arthur, was waiting for us in the boardroom. The table was long enough to land a plane on. Sitting next to him was a man Richard didn’t know—Mr. Sterling, introduced simply as the family’s legal consultant for the trust.

“Richard,” my father said, standing up but not offering a hand. “Good to see you.”

“Arthur,” Richard nodded, trying to match my father’s gravitas. “Ready to get to work.”

“Excellent. Let’s not waste time.”

My father slid a stack of documents across the polished mahogany. They were thick, bound in blue covers, looking every bit the official transfer of wealth Richard had dreamed of.

“As Laura explained,” my father began, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, “we are consolidating the Blue Water assets into a new entity, Vance-Reynolds Capital, to avoid the gift tax and the inheritance delays. We are structuring this as a leveraged buy-in.”

Richard nodded sagely, but I could tell by the glaze in his eyes he didn’t understand half of what Arthur was saying. He just heard Vance-Reynolds Capital—his name first.

“You will be the sole managing director,” Sterling piped up, tapping the paper. “This gives you unrestricted trading authority. However, to satisfy the SEC and the banking covenants, the director must personally guarantee the leverage line. It’s a formality. The assets cover the loan ten times over.”

“Of course,” Richard said, reaching for the silver pen. “Standard procedure.”

“Read it carefully, Richard,” I said softly, feigning concern. “It’s a big commitment.”

He shot me a look that said, Shut up. Let me handle this.

“I know what I’m doing, Laura.”