Chapter 6 - The Other Address
The numbers on the computer screen blurred as my vision tunneled.
Chloe Vance.
I typed the name into the hospital's internal directory out of sheer instinct, wondering if she was a coworker, a client, someone from Jason’s office. Nothing came up. Then I opened a private browser tab and searched her name alongside Jason's on public social media records.
Within seconds, a profile appeared.
Chloe Vance, twenty-eight, marketing coordinator for an equipment-rental supplier—the exact same corporate supply chain network where Jason worked as an operations coordinator.
And right there on her public Instagram feed, posted six weeks ago, was a photo of a smiling woman standing on the front porch of a modest, brick-trimmed suburban house, holding a set of keys with a caption that read: “New chapter, new keys. So ready to make this house a home with my favorite person.”
The house in the background of the photo had a distinct detached garage and a white front railing.
4812 Meadowbrook Lane.
The blood rushed out of my head so fast I had to grab the edges of my desk to keep from falling out of my chair. My breath hitched, a sharp, suffocating pain tearing through my ribs. All the pieces of the puzzle—the sudden late-night "inventory checks" at the warehouse, the unexplained weekend trips to "meet suppliers," the subtle shift in Jason’s posture whenever I brought up our house-hunting budget—snapped into place with terrifying, agonizing clarity.
He hadn't canceled our mortgage preapproval because of interest rates.
He hadn't kept us in his mother’s basement because he was stressed about the market.
He had already bought a house.
Just not with me.
My phone buzzed on the desk. It was a text message from Jason.
“Hey, can you pick up diapers for Tyler on your way home? Mom said we’re almost out.”
I stared at the glowing letters on the screen, a cold, numb fury washing over every particle of my being. For nine months, I had broken my back working double shifts, scrubbing kitchen counters, enduring Linda’s condescending lectures, and sacrificing every spare second of my life—all while my husband was using our joint savings, our shared dreams, and my sweat to buy a home with another woman.
I didn't reply to the text.
Instead, I locked my computer terminal, grabbed my jacket, and walked out of the billing department.
May you like
Karen called out from her office, "Rachel? Where are you going? You just got back from lunch!"
"Family emergency, Karen," I said, my voice remarkably steady. "I won't be back for the rest of the day."
