My husband had no idea my annual income was $2.7 million when he screamed at me, “Hey, you sick bitch! I’ve already filed the divorce papers. Get out of my house tomorrow!”

My phone vibrated again. This time, it wasn’t Trent.

It was an unknown number.

A text message appeared:

“He isn’t telling you everything. Check the safe deposit box.”

My stomach clenched. The safe deposit box—the one Trent insisted we keep “for important documents,” yet somehow always controlled the access code himself.

I stared at the message, then at Naomi.

And in that moment, I understood the truth might not be about a divorce at all.

It might be about whatever Trent had been hiding inside the house he liked to call “his.”

Continue reading…