“Yeah, she just called,” Richard said.
His tone had completely changed, dropping the corporate hustle for something low and familiar.
“I told her I was with a buyer at the office,” he added.
“You need to be careful,” Monica said.
“I am careful,” Richard replied.
“I almost slipped and called her by your name again,” Monica said.
I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white against the dark leather.
“She is not paying attention, Monica,” Richard said. “She is still wrapped up in her own head. But we have to move fast.”
“The doctor said the twelve-week scan is next Tuesday,” Monica said.
“He is growing, Richard. Our boy is growing.”
“I know,” Richard said. “And he is going to have everything he needs.”
I looked at the lane beside me, my eyes burning in the glare of the oncoming headlights.
I put the Volvo in gear and eased it through the intersection, looking for a safe place to stop.
The tires splashed through a deep puddle as I guided the car onto the gravel shoulder of the highway.
I pulled over just beneath the green sign for the Mercer Street exit and shut off the headlights.
The hum of the dashboard was the only light left in the cabin.
“What about the papers?” Monica asked.
Her voice came through the car speakers, clear and dry.
“The trust clears on November fifteenth,” Richard said.
“Five million dollars,” he added.
“Margret Chen is preparing the final transfer documents now,” Richard said. “Once Laura signs them, the money goes straight into our account.”
“Our account?” Monica asked.
There was a brief silence on the line.
“The secondary one,” Monica said. “The one we set up last month?”
“Yes,” Richard said. “I have already started transferring small amounts from her personal checking to keep things moving.”
“She does not check the statements,” he added.
I stared at the black screen of the dashboard.
Whose name was actually on that secondary account, the one draining my funds?
“We just need her to sign the distribution papers,” Richard said.
“Once she does, we file the motion,” he said.
“We use the medical records from her clinic visits to show she is unstable,” Richard added.
“The prenuptial agreement won’t stand a chance in court,” he said.
A sharp beep sounded through the car.
The connection finally cut, and the screen reverted to the home menu.
My phone buzzed twice against the center console.
The first text was from Richard.
Stuck in a meeting with the Mercer group, honey, it read. Pick up some of that salmon for dinner? Love you.
The second text arrived a second later.
It was from Monica.
Thinking of you today, sweetie! Let us get coffee tomorrow, my treat.
I stared at the two names on the screen.
The silence that followed felt enormous, rain drummed on the roof, heavy and relentless.
Richard was already sitting at the kitchen island when I walked through the back door at seven o’clock. He had already plated the salmon I bought, his silver watch gleaming under the pendant lights as he lifted his fork.
“How is your mother doing?” he asked, not looking up from his plate.
“She is quiet,” I said, keeping my hands flat on the cool granite counter to hide the trembling. Under the lip of the stone, I twisted my gold wedding band around my knuckle.
“She asks about you,” I added, watching the steady, practiced rhythm of his shoulders.
Richard paused, his fork hovering over the fish. He looked at me, his eyes tracking the line of my jaw before he reached across the island to touch my wrist.
“You look a little pale tonight, Laura,” he said.
“I am just tired,” I said, pulling my hand back under the pretense of reaching for a glass of water. “The traffic on the bridge was backed up for miles.”
He accepted the explanation with a quick nod and went back to his dinner, detailing a commercial listing on First Avenue that he wanted to secure by the weekend. His voice carried that familiar, fast-paced rhythm, the confident jargon of a man who believed every room he entered was his to command.
I washed my plate in the sink, keeping my back to him while the hot water turned my fingers red.
By eleven thirty, the house was entirely dark. Richard lay on his side in our bedroom, his breathing deep and unbroken, his watch resting on the nightstand beside his wedding ring.
I crept down the stairs, the oak treads cold beneath my bare feet, and slipped into his home office. The room smelled of cedar and the heavy cologne he kept in his desk drawer.
I opened the bottom drawer of his walnut filing cabinet, my fingers moving past the folders for our joint investments and the house deed. Tucked behind a stack of old tax returns was a small white envelope from a local credit union.
Inside was a receipt for an account I did not recognize, bearing a balance of twelve thousand dollars. The slip did not list an owner’s name, only a routing number and a transfer date from three days ago.
Beside the envelope lay a smaller slip from a boutique baby store in Bellevue for forty-five dollars. I folded both pieces of paper and slid them deep into my pocket before closing the drawer.
The question of whose name sat on that secondary account kept me awake until the sky turned grey.
At ten o’clock the next morning, I pulled up to Monica’s apartment building in Capitol Hill. The back seat of my car was loaded with two bags of organic groceries and a carton of the ginger tea she claimed was the only thing that helped her morning sickness.
She opened the door wearing a loose grey cardigan, her hand resting over her small bump.
“Laura, you did not have to do this,” she said, her voice trailing off into that soft, melodic lilt at the end of the sentence. She stepped back to let me in, her fingers instantly rising to touch her collarbone as she looked at the bags.
