I Took My Husband’s Phone In For Repair. The Technician, A Family Friend, Pulled Me Aside And Said,

It was in a folder I almost missed, labeled Practice Management. Buried among legitimate emails about scheduling and supplies was a message from three months ago, addressed to someone named L. Hardy.

The contract is ready for your review. Once this is finalized, we can move forward with the partnership. I’ve attached the financials you requested.

As you can see, the practice is quite profitable, more than enough for both of us. Partnership. L.

Hardy wasn’t just a lover. At least not just a lover. This was business.

I opened the attachment. A detailed financial statement of Robert’s dental practice. But the numbers didn’t match what he’d shown me on our taxes.

The practice was worth nearly $2 million. Triple what I’d believed. And there was a notation at the bottom.

Asset liquidation timeline. January. The month I was supposed to be out of the way.

My hands trembled as I searched for more emails from L. Hardy. There were seven more, each carefully hidden in that innocuous folder.

The story emerged like a photograph developing in a dark room. L. Hardy—Laura Hardy—was a business consultant Robert had hired six months ago.

The emails were professional at first, discussing practice valuation and potential buyers. But by the third email, the tone shifted. I appreciate your discretion regarding the personal aspects of this transition.

As we discussed, a clean break from your current situation will make the sale and relocation much simpler. I’m looking forward to our new arrangement. Current situation.

He meant me. And then, in an email from August:

I’ve reserved the condo in Boca Raton. Two bedrooms, ocean view, as you requested.

We can close on it as soon as your affairs here are settled. I’m attaching the listing photos. I think you’ll approve.

I clicked the attachment. A luxury condominium. White marble.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. Ocean stretching to the horizon. A price tag that made my throat go dry.

To be purchased with money from Robert’s practice and whatever else he could extract from the life we’d built. I took screenshots of everything. Emailed them to myself at an address Robert didn’t know about.

Then cleared my browser history. It was past midnight when I finally climbed into bed beside my husband. He was already asleep, snoring softly.

One arm flung across my pillow. I lay in the dark and listened to him breathe. How many nights had we slept like this?

How many mornings had I woken beside him? How had I never seen what lay beneath the surface? Or had I seen it and simply chosen not to look?

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