I Walked In A Bit Earlier Than Planned And Heard My Husband Sharing News That Stunned Me… But Three Weeks Later, What Happened Was Even More Surprising

The Midnight Confession

I heard my wife give my PIN to her mom, thinking I was asleep. “Take it all, over $120,000.” I just smiled.

40 minutes later, her phone buzzed. “He knows everything. Something’s happening.” Then it went completely silent.

I heard my wife give my PIN to her mother through the bathroom door at 1:47 a.m. and felt something cold settle in my chest.

“4723. That’s the main card. Blue one in his wallet. Cascade Federal Credit Union.”

Lydia’s voice was barely a whisper. But in our silent apartment, it carried like a confession in church.

“You’re absolutely sure he’s asleep?”

That was her mother, Constance Harding. The woman who’d smiled at our wedding while wearing a $4,000 Armani suit she’d made her daughter buy for her.

“Dead asleep. I put two Ambien in his nighttime tea. He’s out until at least nine.”

She hadn’t. I’d watched her crush the pills, watched her stir them into the chamomile tea she’d brought me an hour ago with that soft smile I used to think meant love.

I’d poured it down the sink the second she left the bedroom. Then I’d come back, climbed into bed, and waited.

“How much can I take?”

Constance asked.

“All of it. $127,340. That’s what the app showed this morning when I checked his phone.”

My grandfather’s inheritance. Henry Chen died 8 months ago after 93 years of building a small dry cleaning empire in Portland.

Left everything to me. His only grandson who’d visited him every Sunday for 22 years.

“Jesus Christ, Lydia, that’s real money.”

“I know, Mom. Why do you think I married him?”

The words landed like a fist to my sternum.

Breadcrumbs in the Dark

“What do I tell the bank if they ask?”

Constance said.

“It’s your son-in-law’s card. Say he sent you to make a large withdrawal for a family emergency. Medical bills. Be confident. They never question confident people.”

“And if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong. Just take it all before he can transfer it or freeze the accounts in the morning. We’ll split it. You take 60, I take 67. That’s fair since I’m the one taking the risk of staying married to him a little longer.”

“How long is a little longer?”

Lydia laughed. Quiet. Cruel.

“Three months, maybe. Long enough that the divorce doesn’t look suspicious. I’ve already talked to Mitchell Vance, that lawyer on Third Street. He says Oregon’s a no-fault state. I file. We split assets. I walk away clean with half of everything, plus my half of the inheritance that’s conveniently missing.”

“You’re brilliant, baby girl.”

“I learned from the best.”

They hung up. I lay in the dark listening to my wife of four years brush her teeth like she’d just planned a surprise birthday party instead of grand larceny and divorce.

She crawled into bed at 2:03 a.m., kissed my shoulder, and whispered.

“I love you, Kieran.”

I kept my breathing steady, even the breathing of a man drugged and dreaming. Inside, I was calculating.

Six weeks earlier, I’d started noticing things. Small things, the kind you tell yourself don’t matter until you realize they’re breadcrumbs leading to something dark.

Lydia had started bringing me coffee in bed on random Tuesdays, not special occasions, just Tuesdays with this bright smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You work so hard,”

she’d say.

“Let me take care of you.”

I’d been touched at first. Thought maybe we were finally settling into the comfortable rhythm I’d always hoped marriage would become.

Then the questions started.

“Hey babe, what’s your savings account balance at now? Just curious. Do you have any CDs or bonds I don’t know about for tax purposes? Your grandfather’s money, it’s all in checking right, or did you invest some?”

I’d answered vaguely. Something felt wrong, but I couldn’t name it.

The Mother-in-Law’s Arrival

Then Constance started showing up. Lydia’s mother had never liked me, made that clear from day one when she’d asked what my career trajectory looked like.

And I’d said I was happy managing the bookstore I’d inherited from my other grandfather.

“A bookstore,”

she’d repeated like I’d said meth lab.

But after grandfather Henry died and the money hit my account, suddenly Constance was around all the time. She brought casseroles, asked about my health, and mentioned her tiny social security check while eyeing my new watch.

It was a $300 Seiko I’d bought to replace the one that had died after 15 years.

“It must be nice to afford luxuries,”

she’d said.

The casseroles had been terrible. Too much salt, burnt edges, like she’d never actually cooked for anyone she cared about.

Three weeks ago, I’d come home early from the bookstore with a migraine. Found Lydia and Constance in our kitchen, voices low.

I’d paused in the hallway, something telling me to stay quiet.

“He won’t just hand it over,”

Lydia had said.

“Kieran’s weirdly attached to that money. Talks about honoring grandfather Henry’s legacy.”

She’d said it mockingly, made my grandfather sound like a joke.

“Then we take it without asking,”

Constance’s voice had been cold, matter of fact.

“You’re his wife. You have access to everything. Get the PIN. I’ll make the withdrawal. We split it. Tell him it was hackers or identity theft or something.”

“What if he finds out?”

“He won’t. Men like Kieran don’t pay attention. He’s too busy with his little books and his little life.”

I’d backed out silently. Walked around the block three times until my hands stopped shaking.

The Bank Manager’s Plan

Then I’d gone to the bank, Cascade Federal Credit Union. Branch manager Yolanda Reeves had 23 years in banking and sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“I need to protect my accounts,”

I’d told her.

“I think someone might try to access them fraudulently.”

“Your wife?”

I’d blinked.

“How did you—”

“Kieran, I’ve been doing this a long time. When someone comes in looking nervous and says they need to protect their money from fraud, it’s usually a spouse or family member.”

She’d leaned forward.

“What’s happening?”

So I’d told her about the inheritance, about Lydia’s sudden interest in my finances, and about overhearing the conversation with Constance.

Yolanda had nodded slowly.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.”

She’d helped me set up a new primary account and transferred all $127,340 into it. New card, new PIN, completely separate from anything Lydia had ever seen.

“What about my old account?”

I’d asked.

“We’ll leave it active. Minimum balance, let’s say $50. If anyone tries to make a large withdrawal, the system will flag it immediately and freeze the transaction.”

“We’ll also install additional security protocols.”

“Like what?”

“Like any withdrawal over $100 requires manager approval and photo ID verification. If someone other than you tries to access it, we’ll know within seconds.”

And if they persist? She’d smiled. Not friendly, professional.

“We’ll have security footage, timestamps, and enough evidence for prosecution.”

“You’d really do that?”

“Kieran, I knew your grandfather Henry. He was a good man. Came in every Thursday for 40 years. Never missed a week. If someone’s trying to steal his legacy from you, I’ll make sure they regret it.”

The Shark in the Pearl District

I’d left the bank with a new card, a new sense of control, and a plan. But I’d needed more than just banking security. I’d needed legal protection.

Mitchell Vance, attorney at law, was the same lawyer Lydia had consulted about divorce. I’d walked into his office four days ago wearing my best poker face.

“Mr. Chen,”

he’d stood and offered his hand. Tall, silver hair, expensive suit.

“What can I help you with?”

“My wife came to see you recently. Lydia Harding Chen.”

His expression hadn’t changed, but something flickered in his eyes.

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“She told me she did. Said you advised her on divorce proceedings. No-fault state. Asset split.”

I’d kept my voice calm.

“I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m here because I need my own lawyer.”

He’d sat down slowly.

“I see.”

“Can you recommend someone? Conflict of interest and all.”

Vance had been quiet for a long moment.

“Then, Mr. Chen, I’m going to be honest with you. Your wife did consult with me. And what she described—her planned timeline, her financial expectations—struck me as potentially fraudulent.”

“How so?”

“She mentioned that a significant amount of money might go missing before the divorce filing. She seemed to think this would work in her favor. I told her that deliberately hiding or stealing marital assets is illegal and could result in criminal charges.”

My chest had tightened.

“What did she say?”

“She thanked me for my time and left. I declined to represent her.”

“Because you thought she was planning fraud?”

“Because I don’t help people commit crimes.”

He’d pulled out a business card.

“This is Denise Park, criminal defense attorney, but she also handles divorce cases with suspected financial malfeasance. Tell her I sent you. Tell her everything.”

I’d taken the card.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Chen, Kieran, if your wife is planning what I think she’s planning, you need to protect yourself. Not just financially. Legally, emotionally. Document everything.”

So I had. Denise Park, attorney for 15 years specializing in complex divorce and white-collar crime. Office in the Pearl District, shark eyes, and a handshake that could crack concrete.

“Tell me everything,”

she’d said.

I’d laid it out. The inheritance, the overheard conversations, the sudden interest in my finances, and Constance’s involvement.

Denise had made notes in a leather portfolio.

“Do you have proof? Recordings, even better.”

I’d pulled out my phone and played the audio from two weeks ago. I’d started recording every conversation with Lydia after the kitchen incident.

Legally questionable in Oregon, a two-party consent state, but Denise had said we’d worry about admissibility later.

On the recording, Lydia’s voice was clear.

“Once we get the money out, we just wait a few months and file. He’ll never see it coming.”

Denise had smiled. Not warm, predatory.

“This is good. This is very good.”

“What do I do?”

“You let her try.”

I’d stared.

“What?”

“Let her attempt the theft. Let her mother try to make the withdrawal. With the bank’s security measures in place, they won’t succeed, but they’ll incriminate themselves in the process. Video evidence, transaction logs, testimony from bank staff. Then we press charges.”

“Press charges against my wife?”

“Kieran, your wife is planning to steal over $100,000 from you and then divorce you. She’s not your wife anymore. She’s a criminal who happens to have a marriage license with your name on it.”

The words had hit like ice water.

“What charges?”

“Attempted grand larceny. Conspiracy to commit fraud. Depending on how deep Constance is involved, potentially racketeering. Oregon takes financial elder abuse seriously. Your grandfather just died. This is his money. They’re exploiting that.”

She’d leaned forward.

“But here’s what’s really beautiful. The moment they attempt the theft, you have grounds for immediate divorce with cause. You keep everything. She gets nothing. And if we play this right, she might face jail time.”

“I don’t want her in jail. I just want her gone.”

“Then we use the threat of prosecution as leverage. Sign away all claims to your assets, disappear from your life permanently, or face felony charges. Most people choose option one.”

I’d nodded slowly.

“So I just wait?”

“You wait. You let her think she’s winning. And when she makes her move, we destroy her.”

The Trap is Set

Now it was 2:47 a.m. and I was lying next to a woman who’d just poisoned my tea, given my bank information to her mother, and admitted she’d married me for money.

40 minutes until Constance reached the bank. I’d set my phone to silent, but I could feel it buzzing in my nightstand drawer.

Probably Yolanda texting to confirm the trap was set. I’d visited the bank yesterday and told Yolanda tonight was likely the night.

She’d brought in extra security and tipped off Detective Marcus Okcoy, Portland PD fraud division, 19 years on the force. They’d have cameras running and uniformed officers nearby.

This wasn’t just about stopping a theft anymore. This was about documentation, evidence, and justice.

Lydia shifted beside me and checked her phone. 2:51 a.m. Constance would be at the bank soon.

The main branch had 24-hour ATM access in the lobby. That’s where she’d try first. Less scrutiny than a teller window.

But Yolanda had made sure the ATM had additional cameras and additional security flags. The second Constance inserted my old card, alarms would trigger.

Silent alarms. The kind that brought police instead of noise.

I kept my breathing steady. In, out, in, out.

Lydia’s phone buzzed. She grabbed it. Even in the darkness, I could see her face illuminated by the screen, see the message from Constance at the bank lobby ATM.

“Trying now.”

Lydia typed back.

“Be fast.”

Silence. 30 seconds. A minute.

Lydia’s leg was bouncing. I could feel the mattress vibrating. Two minutes.

Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it so fast she nearly dropped it. The message from Constance.

“Card declined. Says account frozen. What’s happening?”

Lydia’s hand started shaking. Another buzz.

“Security guard approaching. Why is he asking for ID?”

Lydia typed frantically.

“Just leave. Walk away now.”

Buzz.

“He’s calling someone, Kieran. Something’s wrong. He knows. He knows.”

I watched Lydia’s face drain of color in the phone’s glow. Another buzz.

“Police are here. They’re asking about attempted fraud. They have cameras. Oh god, Lydia, what did you do?”

Lydia’s breathing was ragged now. Panicked. Buzz.

“They’re arresting me. They’re putting handcuffs on me. Fix this. Call him. Wake him up. Fix this now.”

Then nothing. Silence.

Lydia sat frozen, phone in hand, staring at the screen like it might offer salvation.

The Confrontation

I counted to ten. Then I opened my eyes.

“Something wrong?”

My voice was calm, quiet. Lydia jumped so hard she nearly fell out of bed.

“Kieran!”

Her voice was too high, too bright, fake.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry. I just… my mom texted and—”

“I know what your mom texted.”

She froze.

“I know what she texted because I’ve been awake this entire time, listening to you plan grand larceny while you thought I was drugged.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“4723. That’s the PIN you gave her to my old card. The one that accesses an account with $50 in it.”

Lydia’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“The Ambien you put in my tea. I watched you crush them, watched you stir them in, then I poured it down the sink while you were brushing your teeth.”

“Kieran, please. I can explain.”

“Can you explain why you married me? Was it always about money, or did you at least like me a little bit at first?”

Tears started streaming down her face. Real ones, maybe. Or just fear.

“I loved you.”

“No.”

I sat up.

“You loved the idea of me. Stable, predictable, easy to manipulate. And when grandfather Henry died and left me money, you saw an opportunity.”

“That’s not—”

“Your mother is being arrested right now at Cascade Federal. Detective Marcus Okcoy has her in custody. They have her on camera trying to access my account with fraudulent authorization. That’s attempted grand larceny, a felony.”

Lydia’s phone started ringing. Unknown number.

“That’s probably the police,”

I said.

“Calling to inform you that your mother has been detained and you should come to the station for questioning, because conspiracy to commit fraud is also a crime, Lydia. And I have recordings of you planning this.”

“Recordings?”

She was shaking now.

“You can’t record me without consent. Oregon’s a two-party state.”

“I know. Denise Park explained that. My attorney. She said, ‘The recordings might not be admissible in criminal court, but they’re absolutely admissible in divorce proceedings,’ which I’m filing tomorrow morning. Today morning, technically. It’s past midnight.”

The phone kept ringing.

“Answer it,”

I said.

Lydia answered with trembling hands.

“Put it on speaker.”

“Miss Harding Chen?”

A woman’s voice, professional.

“This is Detective Jessica Reynolds, Portland Police Bureau. Your mother, Constance Harding, has been taken into custody for attempted grand larceny. We need you to come to the central precinct to answer some questions regarding your potential involvement in this incident.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Ma’am, we have text messages between you and your mother from tonight discussing account access, PIN numbers, and financial theft. We’d like to hear your side of the story.”

Lydia looked at me, eyes wide, desperate. I looked back with nothing.

“I’ll be there,”

she whispered.

“We’ll be waiting.”

Detective Reynolds hung up. Silence.

“Kieran, please.”

Lydia was crying openly now.

“It was Mom’s idea. She convinced me. Said, ‘You didn’t deserve Grandfather Henry’s money because you weren’t really close to him.'”

“I visited him every Sunday for 22 years.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I was stupid. I was weak. But I love you. I do. We can fix this.”

“No. Please, Lydia. You drugged me. You gave your mother my banking information with instructions to steal everything. You admitted you married me for money and planned to divorce me after hiding the theft. You don’t love me. You never did.”

I got out of bed and started getting dressed.

“Where are you going?”

Panic was in her voice.

“Anywhere you’re not.”

I grabbed my wallet, my keys, my phone.

“You can’t just leave.”

“Watch me.”

I walked to the bedroom door, stopped, and turned back.

“You and your mother have two choices. One: Denise Park draws up divorce papers. You sign them. You waive all claims to my assets, my inheritance, everything. You disappear from my life completely. In exchange, I don’t press charges and you avoid jail time.”

“And option two? I press charges for conspiracy to commit grand larceny. You and Constance both face felony convictions, prison time, criminal records, and I still divorce you and you still get nothing.”

Lydia was shaking so hard she could barely stand.

“You have until 9:00 a.m. tomorrow—today—to decide. Denise will email you the papers at dawn. Sign them or face the consequences.”

I walked out. Behind me, I heard Lydia collapse onto the bed sobbing. I didn’t look back.

The Central Precinct

The central precinct at 3:47 a.m. was fluorescent and cold and exactly what I needed.

Detective Marcus Okcoy met me in the lobby. Mid-40s, built like he’d played college football, with a handshake like a vise grip.

“Mr. Chen. Hell of a night.”

“How’s Constance?”

“In holding, screaming about false arrest and police harassment. Standard.”

He led me to an interview room.

“We’ve got her dead to rights. Video of her attempting to access your account, text messages with your wife planning the theft, her own admission that she was there to make a large withdrawal on your behalf, which she later claimed you’d authorized—but the bank manager confirmed you’d specifically flagged the account for fraud protection.”

“Will she go to jail?”

“Depends. DA’s office will review the case in the morning. With the amount involved, over $100,000, they’ll likely charge her with theft in the first degree. That’s up to five years in prison and a $125,000 fine.”

I felt nothing, just cold clarity.

“And Lydia?”

“Your wife’s involvement is stickier. We have the text messages showing conspiracy, but a defense attorney could argue she wasn’t directly involved in the physical theft attempt. However…”

He pulled out a folder.

“Detective Reynolds is interviewing her now. If she admits to the plan, if she confesses to conspiring with her mother, we can charge her too.”

“I don’t want her in prison. I just want her gone.”

Okcoy nodded.

“Denise Park mentioned that. Said you’re willing to drop charges in exchange for a clean divorce.”

“Yes.”

“Smart move. Messy, but smart. I’ll make sure the DA knows you’re not interested in prosecution if they cooperate.”

A knock on the door. Detective Reynolds stepped in. 30s, blonde hair pulled back, eyes that had seen too much.

“Mr. Chen, your wife would like to speak with you.”

“I don’t want to.”

“She’s ready to confess everything, but she wants to do it with you in the room. Says she owes you that much.”

I looked at Okcoy. He shrugged.

“Your call.”

The Final Confession

Interview room B was smaller. Gray walls, metal table. Lydia sat on one side, mascara streaked down her face, hands cuffed to a ring in the table.

She looked up when I entered.

“Kieran.”

I sat across from her and said nothing. Detective Reynolds hit record on a digital recorder.

“This interview is being conducted at 4:12 a.m. on October 3rd, 2024. Present are Lydia Harding Chen, Detective Jessica Reynolds, Detective Marcus Okcoy, and Kieran Chen. Miss Harding Chen has waived her right to an attorney and agreed to make a statement.”

Lydia took a shaky breath.

“I planned it. The theft with my mother. We’d been planning it for six weeks.”

“Since when?”

Reynolds asked.

“Since Kieran’s grandfather died and left him money. Mom said it was stupid to let it just sit there. Said Kieran was too soft to use it properly. Said we should take it and invest it ourselves.”

“How did you plan to do that?”

“I was supposed to get his PIN, his account information. Mom would make the withdrawal at night when he was asleep. We’d split it. Then I’d divorce him in a few months and make it look unrelated.”

“Did Mr. Chen know about this plan?”

“No. I drugged his tea tonight so he wouldn’t wake up while Mom was at the bank.”

Reynolds made notes.

“What drug did you use?”

“Ambien. Two pills crushed into chamomile tea.”

I watched Lydia confess to crimes I’d witnessed but couldn’t quite believe. This was the woman I’d married, the woman I’d thought I’d grow old with.

“Why?”

I asked quietly.

Lydia looked at me.

“Because I needed the money. Because Mom needed the money. Because you were never going to—”

“I would have given you money if you’d asked for something real, something important.”

“I did ask. You said we should save it. Invest it. Be responsible.”

She laughed bitterly.

“I didn’t want to be responsible, Kieran. I wanted to live.”

“So you decided to steal from me?”

“Yes.”

The word hung between us.

“Anything else you want to say?”

Reynolds asked Lydia.

“I’m sorry.”

She was crying again.

“I know it doesn’t matter. I know you’ll never forgive me, but I am sorry.”

I stood.

“Sign the divorce papers. Waive your claims. Disappear. That’s how you make this right.”

“And if I do that, you’ll drop the charges?”

I looked at Detective Reynolds.

“If she cooperates fully, if she signs the documents my attorney provides, if she leaves my life permanently, I won’t press charges. Neither will the bank.”

Reynolds nodded.

“We’ll note that for the DA. But your mother faces separate charges, Ms. Harding Chen.”

“Those aren’t Mr. Chen’s to drop. Mom can handle herself,”

Lydia said quietly.

“She always does.”

Truth and Freedom

I left the interview room without looking back. By 9:47 a.m., I was sitting in Denise Park’s office while she reviewed documents on her laptop.

“Lydia signed,”

she said.

“Ironically, all claims waived. Clean divorce. Assets remain yours. No alimony, no community property split. And Constance, charged with theft in the first degree, posted bail two hours ago. Trial set for January.”

“Will she go to prison?”

“Maybe. Depends on her lawyer and whether she takes a plea deal. But her criminal record is now permanently marked with attempted grand larceny. She’ll never pass a background check again.”

I nodded, felt nothing.

“How are you?”

Denise asked.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s normal. You just blew up your entire marriage in one night.”

“It wasn’t a marriage. It was a con.”

“Even cons feel real when you’re in them.”

She closed her laptop.

“You did the right thing, Kieran. Protecting yourself, protecting your grandfather’s legacy. But that doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“I thought she loved me.”

“Maybe part of her did. But love doesn’t drug someone’s tea and steal their inheritance.”

I laughed. Hollow.

“No. I guess it doesn’t.”

Three months later, the divorce was final. Lydia had moved back in with Constance, who’d taken a plea deal for reduced charges. 18 months probation, 500 hours community service, and full restitution to me for her legal fees.

I never saw either of them again.

The bookstore kept running. I hired a new assistant manager, a college student named River who loved Tolkien and made excellent coffee.

My apartment felt bigger without Lydia’s things. Emptier. Better.

I visited Grandfather Henry’s grave every Sunday. Told him about the money, about protecting his legacy, about learning the difference between love and performance.

“You would have seen through her,”

I said to the headstone.

“You always saw through people.”

The wind rustled the flowers I’d brought. Chrysanthemums, his favorites.

On the way home, my phone buzzed. Text from Yolanda at the bank.

Yolanda saw the divorce was finalized.

“How are you holding up?”

“Better than I expected.”

“Yolanda, your grandfather would be proud. You protected what he built.”

“Thanks for helping, Yolanda.”

“Anytime. Though I hope there’s never a next time.”

“Same.”

That night I couldn’t sleep. Lay in bed—my bed now, not ours—and thought about Lydia’s last words before she signed the papers.

“I really did love you,”

she’d said.

“At first. Before the money, when we were just two people who liked the same movies and made each other laugh.”

“I love that version of us. So why destroy it?”

I’d asked.

“Because I loved money more.”

At least she’d been honest at the end. I rolled over, looked at the empty space where she used to sleep, felt nothing, and realized that nothing was exactly what she deserved to leave me with.

Because the woman I’d married had never existed. She’d been a character Lydia played until the inheritance gave her a reason to drop the mask.

And the real Lydia—the one who drugged tea and planned theft and confessed to marrying me for financial security—I’d never known her at all.

I fell asleep around 3:00 a.m. Dreamed of Grandfather Henry. He was standing in his old dry cleaning shop, pressing shirts the way he’d done for 70 years.

“You did good, Kieran,”

he said without looking up.

“Protected the family. That’s what matters.”

“I lost my wife.”

“You lost a thief who was pretending to be your wife. Big difference.”

“Doesn’t feel different.”

“It will.”

He finished the shirt. Hung it perfectly.

“Time shows you the truth. Sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once in the middle of the night when someone tries to steal from you. Either way, truth wins.”

I woke up at 6:47 a.m. Checked my phone. Email from Denise. Final divorce decree attached.

“You’re officially single. Congratulations or condolences, depending on how you want to look at it.”

I looked at it as freedom. Made coffee. Real coffee. Not the expensive organic shit Lydia had insisted on.

Sat at my kitchen table—my table—and watched the sun rise over Portland. Thought about Grandfather Henry’s last words to me before he died.

“Money shows you who people really are,”

he’d said, holding my hand in his hospital bed.

“Some people grow bigger, some people shrink. Watch what happens when they know you have it. Then you’ll know the truth.”

He’d been right. Lydia had shrunk. Constance had shown her real face.

And I’d learned that love without integrity is just performance art. I finished my coffee, went to work, and opened the bookstore at 9:00 a.m. Like always.

River was already there organizing the new releases.

“Morning, boss. How’d the final divorce papers go?”

“Clean. Done. Over.”

“Good. You deserve better than someone who drugs your tea.”

“Yeah. I really do.”

And for the first time in three months, I believed it. Because the money was safe. The legacy was protected.

And the woman who tried to steal both was gone. Exactly where she belonged.