But Mark was not a good man.
When I arrived at our condo, the silence of the apartment didn’t feel lonely; it felt like the calm before a storm. I kicked off my heels and walked barefoot into the living room, sinking onto the plush sofa we had picked out together. I pulled my phone from my purse and opened my banking app.
There it was. The number that represented our entire life savings, the accumulation of five years of my frugality and hard work.
$650,482.17.
My paycheck had been direct-deposited into this joint account every month since our wedding day. Mark had insisted on it for “better financial management.” I had never questioned it because I trusted him. I trusted our marriage.
I trusted him until exactly seventy-two hours ago.
That afternoon, I had left work early, giddy with the excitement of surprising him for dinner. As I approached our building, I saw him walking out of The Golden Bean, a trendy café down the street. He wasn’t alone. A woman was linked to his arm, laughing at something he whispered.
I had frozen behind a large oak tree, my heart hammered by a sudden, violent realization. The woman was stunning, radiating a confidence I felt I had lost years ago. Mark walked her to the curb and hailed a cab. Before she slid into the backseat, he leaned down and kissed her—not a peck on the cheek, but a deep, intimate kiss that spoke of possession.
“I love you, Claire,” I heard him say.
“I’m waiting for you, darling,” she had replied.
I didn’t confront him. I didn’t scream. I went home, cooked dinner, and smiled when he lied about a late meeting. But the next day, I hired Kevin Vance, a private investigator.
Kevin was efficient. In less than a week, he handed me a manila envelope that dismantled my life. The woman was Claire Sutton, the new Director of Marketing at Mark’s firm. They weren’t just having a fling; they were immigrating. Mark wasn’t going to Toronto for a temporary project. He had used funds from our joint account to put a down payment on a luxury condo in Toronto—in his name and hers.
He was planning to leave, empty the account once he was settled, and then serve me with divorce papers from another country, leaving me destitute.
Not today, Mark, I thought, staring at the banking app.
My finger hovered over the “Transfer” button.
