You Stole My Money, I Took Your Life

"Clear the perimeter first," Marcus instructed into his earpiece, standing firmly on my front porch.

"That isn't necessary," I told him.

"Your father pays me to be necessary, Ms. Penhaligon." Marcus pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into the foyer.

I followed my father's bodyguard inside. The house felt entirely different than it had this morning. The air was stale. The silence felt heavy, suffocating.

"Two hours," Marcus announced, turning to face me. "Grab your essentials. We leave before he has a chance to violate the restraining order."

"I will be done in one."

"Lead the way."

We walked up the sweeping staircase. I kept my eyes fixed on the steps, refusing to look at the framed wedding photos lining the wall. I pushed open the double doors to the master bedroom.

"Do you want me to grab the suitcases?" Marcus asked, stopping at the threshold.

"Top shelf of the walk-in closet," I directed. "Bring the two black ones."

Marcus disappeared into the massive closet. I walked over to my dresser and yanked the top drawer open. I grabbed handfuls of undergarments and tossed them onto the mattress.

Marcus returned, unzipping the luggage on the floor. "Should I pack the framed photos?"

"Leave them."

"What about the jewelry box?" He pointed to the velvet case on my vanity.

"Empty it," I instructed. "But leave the diamond tennis bracelet and the sapphire earrings. I only want the pieces my grandmother left me."

"Understood." Marcus scooped up the antique necklaces. "You do not want the gifts he bought you?"

"I do not want anything paid for with a guilty conscience."

I moved to the wardrobe. I pulled my coats off their hangers, letting the velvet and wool slide over my arms.

"Do you want his suits bagged?" Marcus asked, gesturing to David's side of the closet.

"Leave them." I threw my coats into the open suitcase. "They belong to the trash now."

"You are not taking the bedding, are you?"

"I wouldn't touch those sheets with a hazmat suit." I zipped the first bag shut. "The new owner can throw them out."

"You are selling the house?" Marcus raised an eyebrow.

"The listing goes live tomorrow morning."

I walked over to the nightstands. I needed my passport and the deed to my car. I opened my drawer, finding only hand cream and a discarded charging cable.

"Check his side," I muttered, rounding the massive king-sized bed. I pulled David's bottom drawer open. Empty.

I frowned, pressing my palm flat against the wood inside the drawer. It shifted.

"What are you looking for?" Marcus asked, stepping closer.

"My passport." I dug my fingernails into the tiny gap at the edge of the wood. "He liked to keep it on his side."

I yanked upward. The false bottom popped loose, revealing a shallow hidden compartment.

"Clever," Marcus noted. "Did you know that was there?"

"He fixed the drawer track a year ago." I stared down into the hidden space. "I guess he added an upgrade."

My passport wasn't inside. Instead, a folded piece of thick, premium paper lay flat against the velvet lining. I reached in and pulled it out.

"Bad news?" Marcus watched my face closely.

"Just a confirmation." I unfolded the paper. An airline logo sat stamped across the top. Air France.

"Paris," I whispered.

"Excuse me?" Marcus tilted his head.

"He bought tickets to Paris." I traced the printed text with my thumb. "First class."

"For your anniversary?"

"Yes." My throat tightened. "But not for me." I read the passenger names aloud. "David Monroe. Chloe Dawson."

"The assistant," Marcus deduced flatly.

"The very same."

My eyes scanned the dates. October 12th to October 19th.

"Did he ever mention a trip?" Marcus asked.

"He told me he had a business conference in Chicago that week."

"And you believed him?"

"He is a CEO. Conferences happen." I stared at the departure time. "I spent our fifth anniversary eating takeout alone on the couch."

"He went to great lengths to hide it."

"He even brought me back a snow globe." A dry, harsh laugh scraped its way up my throat. "From Chicago."

"He must have ordered it online."

"He put a lot of effort into his lies."

My eyes burned. A fierce, stinging pressure built behind my eyelids, but no tears fell. I was entirely out of tears for David Monroe.

"Are you alright, Ms. Penhaligon?" Marcus stepped forward, his tone shifting to pure professionalism.

"I am fine."

"You do not look fine. Your hands are shaking."

"They are vibrating with rage, Marcus. There is a difference."

I squeezed the receipt. My fingers curled inward, crushing the thick paper into a tight, jagged ball. A sudden, sharp sting bit into my index finger.

I flinched, opening my hand. The crushed paper dropped to the floor. A thin red line crossed my knuckle. The sharp edge of the premium stock had sliced right through the top layer of my skin. A single bead of blood welled up from the cut, bright and stark against my pale hand.

"You are bleeding," Marcus pointed out. "Let me get a bandage from the kit."

"Do not bother." I wiped the blood forcefully against the dark fabric of my slacks. "It doesn't hurt."

"It is an open cut."

"It is nothing compared to the rest of it." I turned my back on the nightstand. "Grab that second suitcase. We are leaving."

Marcus reached for the luggage handle.

Beep.

The electronic sound drifted up from the ground floor, cutting through the silence of the massive house.

Beep. Beep.

Marcus dropped the suitcase. His right hand instantly went to his holstered weapon, his stance widening. "Did you give anyone the new gate code?" he asked quietly.

"Only David ever had it."

Beep. Buzz.

The heavy oak front door groaned on its hinges.

"Stay behind me," Marcus ordered, moving toward the bedroom exit.

"This is my house." I stepped right beside him.

"And we don't know who just walked into it."

Sharp, rhythmic taps echoed up from the foyer. High heels struck the marble entryway floor, the sound crisp and echoing through the vaulted ceiling.

"David, baby?" a high-pitched, sugary voice called out, drifting up the grand staircase. "Are you home? I brought the champagne to celebrate!"

I froze at the top of the stairs, my fingers tightening around the handle of my suitcase. That pitch was unmistakable. Chloe Dawson had let herself into my home.

"I brought the fabric swatches for the nursery, too," her voice drifted upward, dripping with absolute entitlement. "Our son is going to love his new room in the master suite."

Marcus shifted his weight, his hand resting near his holster, looking to me for the order to strike.