Rachel smoothed her designer dress and checked her reflection one last time. Perfect.
“I’ll be back by midnight,” she called to her husband David. “Don’t wait up.”
“Have fun at book club, honey,” David replied from his office.
Rachel smiled. Book club. If only he knew.
She drove to the downtown hotel, room 418. Marcus was already waiting.
“You’re late,” he said, pulling her close.
“Traffic,” she lied, kissing him hungrily.
Two hours later, she returned home. The house was dark. David’s car wasn’t in the garage.
Strange. He never left this late.
She climbed the stairs, heels clicking on marble. Their bedroom door was closed.
Inside, she found divorce papers on the pillow. A USB drive. A note in David’s handwriting.
I know about Marcus. I know about the others. Check the drive. My lawyer will call you Monday.
Her hands trembled as she opened her laptop. The USB contained dozens of files. Photos. Videos. Bank statements.
Marcus leaving their house. Her kissing him in the driveway. Credit card receipts from hotels. Text messages she thought were deleted.
The final video made her blood freeze.
Security footage from their bedroom. Last Tuesday afternoon. While David was at work.
She watched herself bring Marcus upstairs. Watched them in her marriage bed.
“Oh God,” she whispered.
Her phone buzzed. David.
“Enjoying the show?”
“David, where are you? Let me explain—”
“No explanations, Rachel. I hired a private investigator three months ago.”
“Three months?” Her voice cracked. “You’ve known this whole time?”
“I suspected. The late nights. The new clothes. The way you flinched when I touched you.”
Rachel sank onto the bed. “I can explain everything.”
“Can you explain the fifty thousand you transferred to Marcus last month? From our joint account?”
Her stomach dropped. She’d forgotten about that.
“Or the apartment you rented for him downtown? The one I’m currently standing in?”
“David, please—”
“I’m looking at his closet, Rachel. Full of clothes you bought him. With my money.”
She heard Marcus’s voice in the background. “Who is that?”
“Your sugar mama’s husband,” David said coldly. “The one paying for your lifestyle.”
“David!” Rachel screamed into the phone.
But the line was dead.
Her phone immediately rang again. Unknown number.
“Mrs. Anderson? This is Detective Morrison, Seattle PD. We need to discuss some financial irregularities in your accounts.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Embezzlement. Wire fraud. Your husband provided us with extensive documentation.”
Rachel’s legs gave out. “That’s impossible.”
“You’ve been systematically stealing from your employer’s client accounts. Using a fake identity. Your husband has proof.”
The room spun. “He’s lying!”
“Ma’am, we have video evidence of you accessing restricted files. Bank transfers to offshore accounts. You’re looking at serious prison time.”
The call ended. Rachel stared at the USB drive in horror.
She clicked on a folder labeled “Financial Crimes Evidence.”
Screenshots of her computer screen. Her accessing client accounts. Her transferring funds to accounts in Marcus’s name.
David had been recording everything. For months.
Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Pack a bag. FBI will be there in an hour. – D
She ran to their safe, fingers shaking on the combination. Empty. Her passport, jewelry, emergency cash—all gone.
Another text: Looking for these? A photo of her belongings in David’s car.
She called Marcus frantically. Voicemail.
She tried again. Again. On the fifth try, he answered.
“Rachel? What’s wrong?”
“They know! David knows everything! The police are coming!”
Silence.
“Marcus?”
“Listen, babe. This is getting too complicated. Maybe we should take a break.”
“A break?” she shrieked. “I gave you everything! I stole money for you!”
“You chose to do that. I never asked you to.”
“I bought you a car! An apartment! I paid your rent for six months!”
“And I appreciated it. But I can’t go to prison for your choices.”
The line went dead.
She called back. Number disconnected.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.
Rachel grabbed her purse and ran for the garage. Her BMW was gone. Only David’s old pickup truck remained.
She fumbled for the keys, hands shaking violently.
The truck wouldn’t start. Dead battery.
The sirens were on her street now.
She ran out the back door, through the neighbor’s yard, her heels sinking into wet grass.
Behind her, red and blue lights painted the house.
“Police! Search warrant!”
She made it three blocks before her heel snapped. She limped barefoot down the sidewalk, designer dress torn, mascara streaming.
A patrol car turned the corner, spotlight sweeping.
She ducked behind a dumpster, heart pounding.
Her phone buzzed. David again.
“Give up, Rachel. There’s nowhere to run.”
“You destroyed my life!” she sobbed into the phone.
“You destroyed your own life. I just documented it.”
“I loved you!”
“You loved my money. There’s a difference.”
“What about our marriage? Our vows?”
David’s voice was ice cold. “What about Marcus? What about the other three men you’ve been sleeping with?”
Rachel’s blood froze. “Other three?”
“Did you think I only found one? James from your yoga class. Tony from the country club. And let’s not forget your boss, Mr. Peterson.”
She couldn’t breathe.
“Eighteen months, Rachel. Eighteen months you’ve been cheating. Using my credit cards to pay for hotel rooms. Buying them gifts. Living a double life.”
“I was going to stop—”
“When? After you cleaned out my retirement account? After you sold my grandmother’s ring?”
Her hand instinctively went to her finger. The ring was gone.
“I sold it to pay Marcus’s gambling debts,” she whispered.
“I know. The pawn shop has security cameras too.”
The spotlight found her. Officers surrounded the dumpster.
“Rachel Anderson! Hands where we can see them!”
She raised her hands, phone still pressed to her ear.
“David? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You’re sorry you got caught.”
The officers cuffed her, reading her rights.
“David?” she called desperately as they led her away.
But he’d already hung up.
Six months later.
The courtroom was sterile under harsh fluorescent lighting. Rachel sat at the defendant’s table in her orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed in front of her. She stared down at the legal documents spread before her, but the words blurred together. Her face showed nothing but defeat and exhaustion—the kind that comes from months of sleepless nights in a cell, knowing you’ve lost everything.
Across the aisle, David sat calmly in a navy suit beside his attorney. His posture was composed, professional. He didn’t look at her. Hadn’t looked at her once during the entire trial.
The judge, a stern woman with silver hair pulled back in a tight bun, leaned forward from the bench. Her voice cut through the murmur of the courtroom like a blade.
“The defendant will serve fifteen years for embezzlement and wire fraud.”
The words hit Rachel like a physical blow. Her face crumbled. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of her life, gone.
Behind them, spectators whispered among themselves. Some shook their heads in disapproval. Others leaned forward to get a better look at the woman who’d stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars to fund her affairs.
Rachel’s shoulders began to shake. Reality was setting in—the cold, unforgiving reality of what she’d done and what it had cost her.
The judge continued reading the sentence, detailing the restitution she’d be required to pay, the conditions of her eventual parole. But Rachel heard none of it. She was drowning in the weight of her own choices.
She glanced across the aisle one last time. David’s profile was stone. Unmoved. Unforgiving.
She’d destroyed their marriage, their life together, their future—all for men who’d disappeared the moment things got difficult.
And now she would pay for it. Every single day. For the next fifteen years.
The bailiff approached to escort her away. As the courtroom doors closed behind her, she caught one final glimpse of David. He was standing now, shaking hands with his attorney, already moving on with his life.
While hers had just ended.
