My husband lunged for the black storage drive in my hand.
That was when I knew whatever was on it mattered more to him than the marriage he had already destroyed.
“Eric.”
I stepped backward.
He kept coming.
Not fast enough to look violent.
Not slow enough to look innocent.
Behind him, our living room barely resembled itself anymore.
The movers had already wrapped the cream velvet sofa, removed the walnut coffee table, rolled up the hand-knotted rug, taken the sculptural lamps, the framed prints, the ceramics, the side chairs, and half the custom draperies.
The room looked stripped.
Hollow.
Exactly the way Eric had expected me to feel.
Instead, he was the one unraveling.
My attorney’s voice crackled through the speakerphone on the kitchen island.
“Natalie?”
I kept my eyes on Eric.
“I’m here.”
“Do not disconnect that drive.”
Eric stopped.
Marissa stood near the empty fireplace in a white sweater and tailored trousers, one hand pressed against her throat.
Twenty minutes earlier, she had looked perfectly comfortable in my house.
Now she looked like someone who had just realized she had moved into a crime scene.
My attorney continued.
“We found a transfer from Brooks Design Studio’s operating account.
Eighty-four thousand dollars.
It was routed through two intermediary accounts and landed in an LLC registered yesterday.”
I swallowed.
“How much?”
“Eighty-four thousand, two hundred and sixty dollars.”
The room became very quiet.
Eric shook his head.
“That has nothing to do with me.”
My attorney heard him.
“Eric is there?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His eyes snapped toward the phone.
I had known my husband for nine years.
I knew his different expressions.
Annoyance.
Charm.
Impatience.
Contempt.
The practiced sadness he used whenever he wanted people to believe he was the injured party.
This was different.
This was fear.
My attorney said, “Natalie, the LLC is called Aster Lane Holdings.”
Marissa made a sound behind him.
Not a gasp.
Something smaller.
Something worse.
I turned toward her.
Her face had gone completely white.
Eric did too.
I looked between them.
“You know that name.”
Marissa shook her head too quickly.
“No.”
Eric stepped toward her.
“Don’t.”
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the man who had told me to pack my clothes and leave his house was now giving his mistress orders in the middle of my dismantled living room.
I looked at Marissa.
“What is Aster Lane?”
She stared at Eric.
He stared back.
And in that silent exchange, I learned something important.
Whatever Aster Lane Holdings was, Marissa had known about it.
Maybe not everything.
But enough.
“Marissa.”
Her eyes moved to mine.
“What did he tell you?”
Eric cut in.
“Natalie, stop.”
“No.”
“Natalie—”
“You told me to leave.”
His mouth tightened.
“You are leaving.”
I held up the drive.
“Then why are you so interested in what I’m taking with me?”
He stared at it.
I watched his pupils contract.
Then Marissa whispered, “He told me Aster Lane was for us.”
Eric closed his eyes.
I turned fully toward her.
“For what?”
She crossed her arms tightly over herself.
“A property company.”
