Chapter 3
I didn't sleep that night.
I lay in our bed—the mattress we'd bought secondhand from a neighbor three years ago, the one with the spring that dug into my lower back—and stared at the ceiling.
Marcus slept on the couch. By choice. He said I was "too worked up" and he needed space.
Space. In an apartment so small I could hear him breathing from the next room.
At 5 AM I gave up on sleep and reached for my phone.
I typed Marcus's name into a search engine. Not the way a wife searches for her husband. The way a detective searches for a suspect.
It took less than ten minutes to find what I needed.
Public property records.
Marcus Reed. Three properties registered under his name.
One: a condo in Tribeca. Estimated value: 2.1 million dollars.
Two: a townhouse in Brooklyn Heights. Estimated value: 3.4 million dollars.
Three: a vacation home in the Hamptons. Estimated value: 1.8 million dollars.
Total real estate holdings: over seven million dollars.
My hands went numb.
Seven million.
And I had been wearing the same winter coat since 2020 because I thought we couldn't afford a new one.
I kept digging. His LinkedIn profile listed him not as a junior analyst—not the entry-level nobody he'd described—but as Senior Vice President of Portfolio Strategy.
His firm's website had a bio page with his photo. It described his "exceptional track record" and "client portfolio exceeding nine figures."
There was even an interview in Bloomberg from two years ago.
Two years ago. While I was crying in the bathroom because our electricity got shut off and he told me he'd "forgotten" to pay the bill.
I sat up in bed.
The cold hit me immediately—the broken heater, a constant reminder of how completely he'd deceived me.
I got dressed in the dark. Same cracked shoes. Same thin coat.
Then I left the apartment.
The November air cut through me as I walked to the subway. My feet carried me downtown automatically, as if my body already knew where it needed to go.
I arrived at Marcus's office building at 7:15 AM. The lobby was nearly empty.
But the security guard from last night was there again. He looked surprised to see me.
"Mrs. Reed? You're here early."
"I left something upstairs last night," I said. My voice sounded calm. I didn't feel calm.
He waved me through without question.
Fourteenth floor. Marcus's corner office.
The door was locked, but I knew where he kept the spare key—taped beneath the fire extinguisher in the hallway. I'd seen him use it once, years ago, when I still visited him at work.
Back when he still let me.
Inside, the office smelled like him. Expensive cologne. The faint echo of Vanessa's perfume still lingered.
I went straight to his desk.
His computer was password-protected, but his filing cabinet wasn't. I pulled open drawer after drawer until I found what I needed.
Bank statements. Investment portfolios. Credit card records.
I spread them across his desk and started reading.
What I found made my knees buckle.
Monthly transfers to Vanessa Huang: $15,000. Recurring. For three years.
Credit card charges: Chanel, Dior, Cartier, Hermès—all in her name.
A line item for "V. Huang medical expenses"—$8,000 per month. She wasn't even sick.
A payment to a luxury car dealership: $83,745.
A payment to a private jet charter service: $22,000. A trip to Maldives.
I flipped back through the statements. There were more. Restaurant bills—$500, $800, $1,200—every week. Hotels in the city—$900 a night. Repeatedly.
I felt the room spinning.
Then I found one more document. A life insurance policy.
The beneficiary wasn't me.
It was Vanessa Huang.
Two million dollars.
If Marcus died—or if we divorced—Vanessa would receive two million dollars.
His wife of five years wouldn't see a cent.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Marcus: *Where are you? Your shift at the gas station starts at 8. Don't be late—we need that income.*
I stared at the message until the screen blurred.
Then I opened a new search tab and typed: *divorce attorney Manhattan free consultation.*
A list appeared. I picked the first one and dialed.
"Hello, Law Offices of Janet Morrison. How can I help you?"
"I need a divorce lawyer," I said.
My voice was shaking but I didn't care.
"My husband has been hiding millions from me. And I want every cent I'm owed."
The woman on the other end paused. Then, in a firm, professional voice:
"Come in at nine. Bring everything you can find."
I looked at the pile of documents on Marcus's desk.
Then I pulled out my phone and started photographing every single page.
---
I lay in our bed—the mattress we'd bought secondhand from a neighbor three years ago, the one with the spring that dug into my lower back—and stared at the ceiling.
Marcus slept on the couch. By choice. He said I was "too worked up" and he needed space.
Space. In an apartment so small I could hear him breathing from the next room.
At 5 AM I gave up on sleep and reached for my phone.
I typed Marcus's name into a search engine. Not the way a wife searches for her husband. The way a detective searches for a suspect.
It took less than ten minutes to find what I needed.
Public property records.
Marcus Reed. Three properties registered under his name.
One: a condo in Tribeca. Estimated value: 2.1 million dollars.
Two: a townhouse in Brooklyn Heights. Estimated value: 3.4 million dollars.
Three: a vacation home in the Hamptons. Estimated value: 1.8 million dollars.
Total real estate holdings: over seven million dollars.
My hands went numb.
Seven million.
And I had been wearing the same winter coat since 2020 because I thought we couldn't afford a new one.
I kept digging. His LinkedIn profile listed him not as a junior analyst—not the entry-level nobody he'd described—but as Senior Vice President of Portfolio Strategy.
His firm's website had a bio page with his photo. It described his "exceptional track record" and "client portfolio exceeding nine figures."
There was even an interview in Bloomberg from two years ago.
Two years ago. While I was crying in the bathroom because our electricity got shut off and he told me he'd "forgotten" to pay the bill.
I sat up in bed.
The cold hit me immediately—the broken heater, a constant reminder of how completely he'd deceived me.
I got dressed in the dark. Same cracked shoes. Same thin coat.
Then I left the apartment.
The November air cut through me as I walked to the subway. My feet carried me downtown automatically, as if my body already knew where it needed to go.
I arrived at Marcus's office building at 7:15 AM. The lobby was nearly empty.
But the security guard from last night was there again. He looked surprised to see me.
"Mrs. Reed? You're here early."
"I left something upstairs last night," I said. My voice sounded calm. I didn't feel calm.
He waved me through without question.
Fourteenth floor. Marcus's corner office.
The door was locked, but I knew where he kept the spare key—taped beneath the fire extinguisher in the hallway. I'd seen him use it once, years ago, when I still visited him at work.
Back when he still let me.
Inside, the office smelled like him. Expensive cologne. The faint echo of Vanessa's perfume still lingered.
I went straight to his desk.
His computer was password-protected, but his filing cabinet wasn't. I pulled open drawer after drawer until I found what I needed.
Bank statements. Investment portfolios. Credit card records.
I spread them across his desk and started reading.
What I found made my knees buckle.
Monthly transfers to Vanessa Huang: $15,000. Recurring. For three years.
Credit card charges: Chanel, Dior, Cartier, Hermès—all in her name.
A line item for "V. Huang medical expenses"—$8,000 per month. She wasn't even sick.
A payment to a luxury car dealership: $83,745.
A payment to a private jet charter service: $22,000. A trip to Maldives.
I flipped back through the statements. There were more. Restaurant bills—$500, $800, $1,200—every week. Hotels in the city—$900 a night. Repeatedly.
I felt the room spinning.
Then I found one more document. A life insurance policy.
The beneficiary wasn't me.
It was Vanessa Huang.
Two million dollars.
If Marcus died—or if we divorced—Vanessa would receive two million dollars.
His wife of five years wouldn't see a cent.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Marcus: *Where are you? Your shift at the gas station starts at 8. Don't be late—we need that income.*
I stared at the message until the screen blurred.
Then I opened a new search tab and typed: *divorce attorney Manhattan free consultation.*
A list appeared. I picked the first one and dialed.
"Hello, Law Offices of Janet Morrison. How can I help you?"
"I need a divorce lawyer," I said.
My voice was shaking but I didn't care.
"My husband has been hiding millions from me. And I want every cent I'm owed."
The woman on the other end paused. Then, in a firm, professional voice:
"Come in at nine. Bring everything you can find."
I looked at the pile of documents on Marcus's desk.
Then I pulled out my phone and started photographing every single page.
---