Chapter 3 - Unmasking the Traitor
Ashley sat at a outdoor table at an upscale café in the Inner Harbor, wearing dark sunglasses and sipping a green smoothie. She looked perfectly composed, utterly untroubled by the turmoil tearing through the Miller family.
As far as she knew, Dwight was handling his "hysterical new bride," and the financial transfer was underway.
She opened her designer purse, pulled out a compact mirror, and checked her lipstick.
"Mind if I sit down?"
Ashley jumped, her compact snapping shut.
I pulled out the metal chair opposite her and sat down. I wasn't wearing my wedding ring anymore. I wore a crisp tailored blazer, dark trousers, and dark sunglasses of my own—though mine were covering the light yellowing bruise along my cheekbone.
Beside me stood Amy, who immediately pulled out a tablet computer and set it upright on the small bistro table, facing Ashley.
"Elizabeth!" Ashley gasped, her fake smile instantly plastering across her face, though her eyes darted nervously. "Oh my god... I heard about what happened yesterday! Susan told me you threw a fit and broke a table! I was so worried about you!"
"You were so worried about me that you stayed in bed until noon while my father-in-law slapped me twice?" I asked quietly.
Ashley flinched. "I... I wasn't there, Elizabeth! I don't know what you're talking about! Look, if Dwight’s family is being difficult, you can come stay at my place—"
"Amy," I said. "Press play."
Amy tapped the screen.
The audio echoed clearly over the soft ambient jazz music playing from the café’s speakers. Dwight’s voice came through crisp and loud:
"Once we get her forty-eight thousand dollars... my mom will break her spirit in less than a month... By spring, you and I buy the cottage in Annapolis with her money."
Ashley’s face didn't just lose color; it turned an ashen, translucent gray. Her breath hitched in her throat. She reached out with a trembling hand to push the tablet away, but Amy firmly blocked her hand.
"That's a private video!" Ashley hissed, her voice cracking as she looked around frantically to see if nearby diners were listening. "Where did you get that?! That’s illegal! You hacked Dwight’s computer!"
"Dwight gave me his password himself so I could download our wedding photos, Ashley," I replied, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table. "He synchronization-mapped his entire phone storage to that cloud account. You two weren't just cruel; you were remarkably stupid."
"Elizabeth... please," Ashley whispered, her smug posture crumbling into desperate panic. Her eyes welled with real tears now—not tears of guilt, but tears of absolute terror. "It wasn't my idea! It was Dwight! He told me you two were having problems before the wedding! He told me you were emotionally abusive to him! He manipulated me!"
"Save the performance for the prosecutor," I said coldly.
I pulled a thick white envelope from my blazer pocket and slid it across the table. It landed right beside her green smoothie.
"What is this?" she whispered.
"That is a civil summons," I informed her. "You are being named as a co-conspirator in a lawsuit for Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress, Fraud, and Tortious Interference with a Contract. Furthermore, Christopher sent a copy of that video—along with a formal notice of legal proceedings—to the managing partners at your accounting firm twenty minutes ago."
Ashley gasped as if she had been punched in the chest. "My job?! You sent this to my bosses?!"
"You are a Senior Financial Auditor, Ashley," I said, leaning in so close she could smell the cold tea on my breath. "Your job requires absolute moral integrity and financial trust. How do you think your firm feels about an auditor who conspires to steal forty-eight thousand dollars through forged power-of-attorney documents?"
"You ruined my life!" Ashley screamed, standing up so fast her chair screeched against the concrete patio. "You malicious, bitter bitch! You ruined my career!"
"You ruined your own life the second you put your hand on my husband's knee seven days before my wedding," I said, standing up calmly. "I’m just delivering the receipt."
As Amy and I turned and walked toward the parking garage, I heard Ashley’s phone ringing frantically. The caller ID on her screen—visible from three feet away—read DWIGHT. She slammed the phone onto the ground, shattering the screen into a hundred webbed cracks, and began to sob uncontrollably right there on the sidewalk.
That evening, I was staying at a secure corporate apartment Christopher had arranged for me.
Around 8:00 PM, a knock sounded at the door.
I looked through the peephole. It was Dwight.
He looked like a man who had been dragged through a hedge backward. His tie was undone, his eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and his suit jacket was crumpled. He was holding a large bouquet of white lilies—my favorite flowers.
He didn't know I had a security officer standing right inside the foyer with me.
I opened the door three inches, keeping the heavy security chain engaged.
"Elizabeth," Dwight wept, sinking to his knees right there in the carpeted hallway. "Please. Please, I’m begging you. Look at me."
"You are violating a temporary protection order, Dwight," I said through the crack. "The police are two minutes away."
"I don't care! Send me to jail! Just listen to me!" he cried, clutching the metal doorframe. "My dad is sitting in a holding cell right now because he can't make bail! The bank froze all our family accounts! My mom is having panic attacks! Ashley locked me out of her apartment and fired her lawyer! Everything is falling apart, Elizabeth!"
"Consequences usually feel like that," I said.
"I love you!" Dwight sobbed, placing his forehead against the wooden door. "I made a mistake! Ashley seduced me! She drove me crazy! My dad pushed me to get the money because his business is bankrupt! I never wanted to hurt you! I swear to God, I love you!"
I looked at the man I had married thirty-six hours ago. I searched my heart for a flicker of the love, the warmth, or the hope I had felt when I walked down the aisle toward him.
There was nothing. Just a cold, clean void.
"You don't love me, Dwight," I said softly. "You loved my forty-eight thousand dollars. You loved the idea of a servant who paid eight hundred dollars a month to wash your family's dirty socks. But that woman died the moment your father hit me and you stood there and watched."
"Elizabeth, please—"
"Goodbye, Dwight."
May you like
I closed the heavy oak door. I engaged the deadbolt.
Ten seconds later, the building’s private security officers rounded the corner of the hallway. I listened through the door as Dwight wept, pleaded, and was handcuffed and led away for violating the protection order.
