Chapter 3 - The Arrival
Ethan returned on Tuesday evening, exactly as his fake itinerary dictated, though his flight originated from Miami instead of London. He walked through the front door carrying his leather duffel bag, looking effortlessly handsome in his charcoal travel suit, wearing an expression of practiced, weary affection.
"Lauren, honey, I’m home," he called out, dropping his keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway.
I was sitting at the kitchen island, sipping a cup of green tea and reviewing quarterly marketing metrics on my laptop. I forced my facial expression into a mask of calm domestic warmth, closing the lid of the computer as he walked into the kitchen.
Ethan crossed the room, leaning down to plant a practiced, lingering kiss on my cheek. He smelled of expensive cologne and airport lounge coffee—and beneath it, the faint, lingering scent of sunscreen and saltwater that didn't belong in London in late autumn.
"How was London?" I asked, my voice steady, my eyes locking onto his without a flicker of doubt. "Did you close the Sterling acquisition?"
Ethan smiled, slipping easily into his corporate persona. He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me, rubbing the back of his neck with feigned exhaustion. "It was grueling, babe. Endless meetings, cold weather, and terrible room service. But yes, we finally got the signatures we needed on the main contract. I'm exhausted, but it was worth it."
"You must be," I said softly, tilting my head. "Did you miss me?"
"Every single minute," he replied smoothly, reaching across the island to squeeze my hand. His fingers were warm, steady, and entirely capable of deceit. "I kept thinking about getting back to our routine. Just you and me."
"Me and you," I repeated, tasting the bitter irony of the words on my tongue. "By the way, Ethan, did anything come in the mail regarding the duplex? I thought I saw a notice from the county registry earlier this week."
For a fraction of a second—a microsecond that ordinary people would miss—Ethan’s eyes flicked to the left, his jaw tightening just slightly. It was the precise physiological tell of a man calculating risk assessment in real time.
"The duplex?" he asked, keeping his voice light, though a subtle edge of tension crept in. "No, nothing specific. Probably just routine municipal tax assessments. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, nothing," I replied, offering a sweet, innocent smile. "Just making sure our financial ducks are in a row. You know how paranoid I get about paperwork."
"Always," Ethan laughed, standing up and pulling me into a hug. He rested his chin on my head, whispering into my hair, "You don't ever have to worry about money, Lauren. I take care of everything."
You sure do, I thought, pressing my face against his chest while my hands rested against his back. And soon, you're going to pay for every single bit of it.
That night, while Ethan slept soundly beside me, breathing deeply in the dark bedroom we had shared for a decade, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. His phone rested on the nightstand. At 2:14 AM, the screen lit up with a silent push notification. I didn't wake him. I simply rolled over, picked up the phone using his face ID while he slept—a trick I learned when he set it up—and opened the notification.
It was a text from an unsaved number, though I knew the digits by heart now.
May you like
Vanessa: The lender just called. They flagged the spousal signature as non-compliant and froze the application for fraud investigation. Ethan, what happened?
I stared at the screen, a slow, cold smile spreading across my face in the dark. Game on.
