Divorce from Deceitful Husband

I moved my essentials into the guest room that night, my hands trembling as I unpacked my toiletries. The house felt different now—hostile territory where I was the unwelcome intruder despite being the legal owner.

"You don't have to do this alone," my father had said when I called him, my voice breaking as I explained everything. "Come home, Addie."

But I couldn't run away. Not yet.

---

"These are the forms you'll need to complete," Marcus Webb said, sliding papers across his polished desk. His law office smelled of leather and coffee, a comforting combination that helped calm my frayed nerves.

Marcus had come highly recommended—a divorce attorney known for his fairness and thoroughness. His kind eyes contrasted with his sharp suit and no-nonsense demeanor.

"The mandatory separation period is ninety days," he explained, his pen tapping lightly against each document. "During this time, you need to document everything: assets, expenses, instances of infidelity."

"Infidelity," I repeated, the word bitter on my tongue. "Is that what we're calling it when your husband's mistress gets pregnant?"

Marcus's expression softened. "Adelaide, I know this is difficult, but the more evidence we gather, the stronger your position will be."

I nodded, swallowing hard. "There are... threads. Red threads I can see connecting people."

Instead of looking at me like I was crazy, Marcus leaned forward. "What do they show you?"

"Matteo and Miriam. They're connected by a bright red thread." I traced the invisible line with my finger. "And there's one connecting me to him too, but it's fading."

"Then we need to work quickly," he said, his voice gentle but urgent. "Gather financial records, take photos of assets. Document any inappropriate behavior in the house."

---

I didn't expect Matteo to move Miriam in so quickly.

Three days after our confrontation, I came home to find her suitcase in the master bedroom—my bedroom until recently. She was hanging her clothes in the closet, her movements deliberate and possessive.

"Oh, you're back," she said without turning around. "Matteo mentioned you might be staying in the guest room for a while."

The casual cruelty of it stole my breath. "This is still my home."

"For now," she replied, finally facing me. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

Later that evening, I heard them talking in the living room. I wasn't eavesdropping—I was simply trying to get a glass of water when I heard my name.

"She's making things difficult," Miriam's voice drifted through the hallway. "We need to deal with her."

"Don't worry about Adelaide," Matteo replied dismissively. "She'll come around."

A chill ran down my spine. Deal with me? What did that mean?

---

Rebecca arrived the next afternoon with a bottle of wine and determination in her eyes. "You look terrible," she announced, pulling me into a hug.

"Thanks," I managed a weak smile. "Just what a girl wants to hear."

We settled in the kitchen—the only space that still felt like mine—and I poured us both tea instead of wine. I couldn't risk dulling my senses.

"I have to tell you something strange," I said, staring into my cup. "I can see these red threads connecting people."

To her credit, Rebecca didn't immediately suggest I see a therapist. Instead, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "What do they mean?"

"They show who's connected to whom. Who loves who." I swallowed hard. "Matteo and Miriam are connected by a bright red thread."

Rebecca's expression darkened. "That's not all you've been dealing with, is it?"

I shook my head and told her everything—the pregnancy test, the attorney, Miriam's threat.

"You need to leave," Rebecca said firmly when I finished. "Stay with me until this is over."

"I can't," I insisted, my voice stronger than I expected. "I won't be driven from my own home."

---

That night, I woke to a shadow standing over my bed.

Miriam's face loomed above me, her expression vacant yet somehow menacing. In her hand gleamed a kitchen knife.

"Miriam?" I gasped, scrambling backward.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she whispered, her voice unnaturally flat. "I'm sleepwalking."

She raised the knife slowly.

I screamed—a primal sound that tore from my throat and echoed through the house.

Matteo burst through the door seconds later, his hair rumpled from sleep.

"What's happening?" he demanded.

"Miriam has a knife!" I cried, clutching the blankets to my chest.

But instead of protecting me, Matteo rushed to Miriam's side. "It's okay," he soothed, gently taking the knife from her unresisting hand. "You're having another episode."

He turned to me with irritation in his eyes. "She's sleepwalking, Adelaide. It's a medical condition."

"She could have killed me!"

"You're overreacting," he said coldly. "This is exactly why Miriam is concerned about your behavior."

As he guided Miriam from the room—her eyes now wide awake and triumphant—I realized with chilling clarity that I was truly alone in this house.