The twins’ birth.Wrong.
I swallowed and entered our anniversary.
Unlocked.
The home screen was nearly empty.No texts.No call logs.Just one app.
Banking.
My stomach turned as I tapped it.The username auto filled.I reset the password.Two-factor authentication followed immediately.
The phone vibrated.
I entered the code.
The account loaded.
$3,000,000.
I recoiled as if the number itself could scorch me.
It was real.The money.The betrayal.The danger.
Beneath the balance were two names.
Morgan Powell.
Michelle Powell.
Our daughters.
Ray had hidden it in their names.
For a long moment, I couldn’t move.Couldn’t breathe.Part of me had been clinging to something softer—some quiet hope I hadn’t allowed myself to name.That I’d known my husband better than anyone else.That the rumors had been exaggerated.That the accusations had been convenient.That Ray hadn’t stolen anything at all.
I scrolled again.Checked the account history.Dates.Transfers.The careful way the money had been moved, parked, untouched.Preserved.
This wasn’t panic.
This was planning.
My chest tightened with the slow, crushing weight of certainty.
Ray hadn’t been framed.He hadn’t been desperate.He had known exactly what he was doing.
I pressed my thumb against the screen, as if disbelief alone could erase what I was seeing.It didn’t.The account names stared back at me in black and white.
Not protection.
Camouflage.
Something inside me went very still.
Not grief.Not rage.
Recognition.
The man I married hadn’t just lied to me.He had used me.Used our children.Built his escape on the assumption that I would never look close enough to see it.
