I Left After I Found My Husband’s Bastard

The next afternoon, I brought my laptop to Harriet's office and laid out everything Sophie had found.

Harriet wrote a few lines in her notebook. "The paternity test record, combined with the photo geotags, the purchase agreement, and the financial records—your evidence chain is solid."

"But if you want maximum leverage, you need one more thing."

"What?"

"Direct evidence of an intimate relationship between him and Natalie Voss. Chat logs, or surveillance footage of them entering and leaving that apartment together."

"I can't get into his phone. After I asked him about it, he changed all his passwords."

"Then go for the surveillance. Maple Ridge is a newer complex—the building entrance and elevator cameras will have footage. Request it from building management."

"Why would they give it to me?"

Harriet looked at me. "You're the legal spouse of the property occupant's partner. If the down payment came from marital assets, you have a right to know."

"Have your friend trace that $45,000—find out which of Dylan's accounts it came from. If it's a post-marriage account, you go straight to the court for a discovery order."

I called Sophie.

The next day, she told me the $45,000 down payment came from Dylan's commission account, wired in three installments through an intermediary account before landing in Natalie's home-purchase escrow.

The intermediary account belonged to Derek Holloway.

Dylan's colleague.

The same Derek Holloway who'd posted that housewarming photo from Maple Ridge on Instagram.

My husband, while I was seven months pregnant, had used our marital assets to buy his mistress an apartment—laundered through his colleague.

How thorough.

Harriet helped me obtain a court discovery order.

The day I received it, I went to Maple Ridge building management.

The property manager took one look at the order and didn't push back. He pulled up the entrance and elevator surveillance for Building 7, Unit 2.

From March 2022 to the present, Dylan's visits were crystal clear.

Three or four times a week at most.

Once a week at least.

Never a single gap.

One clip I watched for a long time.

October 7, 2022. 2:15 a.m.

Dylan stepped out of unit 1802, carrying a bouquet of baby's breath.

Before the elevator doors closed, a young woman in a nightgown leaned out and kissed him on tiptoe.

He smiled—genuinely happy.

That was the day Natalie gave birth.

And the eighth day after my delivery, the night I got up alone to warm Lily's bottle.

I remembered he'd said he was on the night shift and wouldn't be home.

I'd said okay.

I copied all the surveillance footage.

Went home and cooked dinner as usual.

Dylan arrived at seven. Changed shoes, washed hands, sat down, complimented my slow-cooked ribs.

Lily was beside him calling for Daddy to feed her.

He fed her bite by bite, dropping a kiss on her forehead now and then.

"Honey, it's Mom's birthday this weekend. How about this place?" He handed me his phone—a Japanese restaurant on the screen.

"Sure."

I put a piece of rib in my mouth.

Across from me, he chatted and laughed like nothing had happened.

And maybe, in his world, nothing had.

Two homes. Two daughters. Two lives.

He switched between them seamlessly.