Inside the nursery, I lowered myself into the plush rocking chair beside the unfinished mahogany crib. The smell of fresh paint made my stomach turn. A minute later, I heard the bedroom door softly click shut.
Frantic, hushed whispers bled through the drywall. Then the faint, rapid sound of footsteps retreating down the back stairs. The side door opened and shut with a muted thud.When I finally emerged and went back to the master bedroom, the space was sterile. The champagne camisole had vanished. The bed was meticulously straightened, the pillows chopped precisely the way I liked them.
Damon’s white shirt was no longer draped over the closet handle.
He was downstairs, casually running water in the kitchen sink as though he hadn’t just been dismantling our marriage thirty minutes earlier. They believed they’d sanitized the crime scene.
They assumed my silence meant they were safe.
I locked myself back in the nursery and opened the security app on my phone.
Claire had an emergency entry code to our smart locks. I’d given it to her the day I found out I was pregnant, trusting her enough to enter my home whenever I might need help.Three days earlier, $18,500 had been wired out of the account. The recipient: Riverton Heights Residential — a luxury high-rise on the other side of the city.
My breath hitched. I opened my laptop and logged into my personal credit-monitoring service. My credit score was immaculate, something I prided myself on.
But there, under Recent Hard Inquiries, was a hit from Riverton Heights.
I dug deeper into the digital footprint. Damon hadn’t just stolen the money for a love nest. He’d used my name, my Social Security number, and my impeccable financial standing to sign as the primary guarantor on a two-year luxury lease for Claire.
