Chapter 2

The legal team replied the next day, their tone cautious.

David had a transfer on his account under the guise of a petty cash fund—a significant amount that had been signed off and sent to a private account. I stared at the recipient's ID information for three full passes.

Lester.

I set my phone face-down on the table, went to the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water. It was cold, but I didn't really taste it.

I sat back down and pulled up every instance over the past three years when she'd claimed to be "working late," "at a gathering," or "staying over at a friend's place." I opened David's travel records and cross-referenced them one by one.

First match. Second match. Third, fourth, fifth—almost every single one matched, with time differences never exceeding fifteen minutes, as if they'd coordinated it.

The "group photos" she'd sent me—I'd never looked closely at the backgrounds before. Now, zooming in, I found one taken in a hotel hallway. The mirror reflected half a figure—a tie, cufflinks, the same suit David had posted on his social media that day.

Three years.

I saved all the screenshots and created a folder.

My father had been pushing me these past few days. The luxury car dealership had expanded to a third city, and Los Angeles needed someone who could make decisions. He called and got straight to the point. "How long are you going to keep running around as a designated driver? Do you have any idea how many things are piling up waiting for you to come back to the company?"

I said, "Give me a little more time."

He was silent for a moment. "Are you still hung up on that woman?"

I didn't answer.

He sighed, his voice softening. "Your mother said years ago that girl wasn't right for you. We tried to stop you, but you wouldn't listen. Are you satisfied now?"

I said, "Dad, I'll come back to handle LA once I'm done here. Send Wesley over first."

He was silent for a while longer before saying, "Fine. I'll have Wesley there tomorrow."

After hanging up, Lester sent me a message saying she had to work late at the office tonight. She asked if I'd eaten and told me not to wait up for her—it would be very late. At the end, she added, "Be good and wait for me at home," followed by a kissing emoji.

I replied with a simple "okay."

Then I put on my jacket, went outside, hailed a cab, and gave the address of her supposed "office."

When I arrived downstairs, the company entrance was dark. The lights were off. The entire floor was empty.

I found a step across the street and sat down. After ten minutes, David's car turned the corner and stopped by the curb. Lester walked over from another direction, moving quickly, and opened the passenger door to get in.

The window rolled up. The car stayed parked there without driving off.

I opened my phone's video recorder and pointed it at the car.

Ten minutes. Thirty minutes. A full hour.

The car sat there under the streetlight, engine still running. The body rocked gently but steadily, the motion consistent.

I saved the video, stood up, brushed the dust off my pants, and took a cab home.

She got home at one in the morning, walked in saying "work was exhausting," tossed her bag on the couch, changed into slippers, and went to take a shower. When she came out, her hair was still damp. She leaned against the headboard, scrolling through her phone, wearing an expression of deep relaxation.

Not the kind of relaxation that comes after exhaustion—the kind that comes after satisfaction.

She looked up and saw I was still awake. "Why aren't you asleep yet? Don't you have rides to pick up tomorrow?"

I said, "Can't sleep."

She hummed in acknowledgment and didn't say more. She turned off the light, lay down, and within three minutes, her breathing had evened out.

How many of those "working late" nights over the past three years had she spent in that car?

I sent Wesley a message: Come over tomorrow. I need to talk to you.

The next day, Wesley arrived. The first thing he said when he sat down was, "Julian, have you finally made up your mind?"

I pushed my phone in front of him. Screenshots from the legal team's account review, the hour-long video, the dashcam footage—I showed him everything, one by one.

When he finished, he was silent for a long time before pushing the phone back.

"What are you planning to do?"

I said, "At the annual gala. I'm ending this."