Chapter 6 - THE ULTIMATE BAIT
By Monday morning, the game of pretend was reaching its peak.
"I have to go to Boston for three days, Ethan," I said over breakfast, keeping my eyes focused on my tablet as I sipped my coffee. "A major interior design client is closing on a brownstone. They want me there in person to oversee the initial staging."
Ethan, sitting across from me, nearly choked on his toast. He tried to mask his immediate, soaring relief, but his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Oh. Really? That's... I mean, that's amazing, Sarah. You've worked so hard for that client. When do you leave?"
"Tonight," I replied smoothly, looking up to offer him a tired, compliant smile. "My flight is at seven. I was thinking... maybe this space is exactly what we need. When I get back, we can sit down and talk about how we move forward. Together."
"Absolutely, baby. I think that's incredibly smart," Ethan said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Take all the time you need. I'll take care of everything here."
I packed my bags that afternoon, making a big show of folding my blazers and placing my travel-sized toiletries into my suitcase. Ethan even offered to drive me to the airport, playing the role of the doting, remorseful husband to absolute perfection.
"I love you, Sarah," he said, kissing my cheek at the departures terminal. "Have a safe flight."
"I love you too, Ethan," I murmured against his collar, breathing in the scent of his expensive cologne one last time.
But I didn't get on a plane to Boston.
The moment Ethan’s car pulled away from the curb, I walked straight through the airport terminal, slipped out the transit doors, and hailed a rideshare to a quiet, unassuming boutique hotel three miles from our townhouse.
Brooke Chase was already waiting for me in the lobby, a sleek tablet tucked under her arm.
"Are the cameras live?" I asked as we walked toward the elevators.
"Fully operational," Brooke confirmed, opening a secure app on her screen. "I had my technician install three microscopic, motion-activated pinhole cameras while you and Ethan were at the family barbecue yesterday. One in the living room, one in the kitchen, and one in the master bedroom. High-definition, night-vision, and cloud-backed."
By 9:30 PM, the first alert pinged on Brooke's tablet.
We sat side-by-side on the hotel bed, staring at the screen. The feed from our living room camera showed the front door opening. Ethan walked in, but he wasn't alone.
Chloe was right behind him, her arms wrapped around his neck before the door was even fully shut. She was laughing, that same husky, mocking laugh that had shattered my life a few days prior.
"I told you she was too stupid to suspect anything," Chloe’s voice came through the high-quality microphone, crystal clear as she kicked off her heels. "She actually believed she was the problem. She felt guilty, Ethan."
"You're a genius, Chloe," Ethan murmured, pulling her close, his hands sliding down her back. "Let’s pop the champagne. E&C Holdings officially cleared the final escrow payment for the Heights condo this afternoon. The deed is locked. It’s ours."
They moved up the stairs, and the camera feed automatically switched to the master bedroom.
I watched, my face carved from stone, as my husband and my cousin poured expensive champagne—bought with my money—and toasted their "victory" in my own bed. They laughed about my father's trust fund, joked about how they were going to slowly drain the rest of my business accounts, and whispered about the day Ethan would finally file for divorce, leaving me with nothing.
"Are we recording?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, though my heart felt entirely numb.
"Every single frame, every single syllable, is being uploaded to a triple-encrypted secure cloud," Brooke said, her jaw tight with a mixture of professional satisfaction and absolute disgust. "They just handed us a goldmine, Sarah. This isn't just proof of adultery. They just openly confessed on tape to grand larceny, conspiracy, and financial fraud."
I stood up and walked to the hotel window, looking out over the glittering city lights.
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They thought they had won. They thought they had successfully played the meek, broken wife. But they had just signed their own financial and legal death warrants, and the ink was about to dry.
"Call the lawyers, Brooke," I said, my reflection in the dark glass showing a woman who was no longer grieving. "Tell them to prepare the paperwork. Tomorrow morning, we pull the plug."
