Chapter 1 - The Anatomy of a Second Life
By 3:00 a.m., the silence of the Greenwood Village house felt less like peace and more like the vacuum inside a tomb.
Lauren sat at the island counter, her laptop screen illuminating her face in a cold, blue wash. On her desk sat the leather notebook she had opened earlier, its first page now filled with dates, flight numbers, and credit card statement anomalies she had glossed over during the last eight months.
She did not touch Evan’s personal laptop or pry into his phone. An editor and certified forensic accountant—which Lauren happened to be before she took a step back after her miscarriage—knew better than to trigger digital security alerts or leave audit logs. She didn't need his passwords. She had access to their joint tax returns, the family trust structures, and the home network router logs.
Her fingers moved silently across her keyboard.
When a man has an affair that reaches the level of airport pickups in a luxury SUV, he leaves financial ripples. Lauren brought up the joint accounts for Bennett Financial Holdings, the consulting firm Evan had built with his father, Richard, seven years ago.
There it was. A monthly retainer paid to an independent contractor firm based out of Scottsdale, Arizona, named Aura Media Relations.
$8,500 every single month.
The description on the invoices: Strategic Brand Management & Client Liaison Services.
Lauren cross-referenced the corporate registration of Aura Media Relations with the Colorado Secretary of State’s public database. The principal owner was listed under a single manager name: Chloe Vance.
Age: twenty-seven. Address: A luxury high-rise penthouse in downtown Denver’s River North district—a building owned by a subsidiary of Bennett Financial.
Lauren slowly closed her eyes. The pieces of the puzzle weren't just falling into place; they were locking together with a sickening, metallic precision. Evan hadn't just taken a mistress. He was using his family’s corporate structure—a firm whose original startup capital had come directly from Lauren’s late grandfather’s inheritance—to fund Chloe Vance’s entire lifestyle.
Upstairs, the floorboards creaked.
Lauren closed the browser tabs with two swift hotkey commands, swapped her screen to a draft of an editing manuscript, and leaned her chin on her hand just as Evan came down the curved wooden staircase in his grey lounge pants.
"Babe?" Evan blinked against the dim kitchen light, rubbing his eyes. "What are you doing up? It's almost four in the morning."
Lauren turned in her chair, offering him a tired, gentle smile—the same smile she had worn for twelve years.
"Just reading through a manuscript submission," she said smoothly, her voice calm and level. "My head was spinning a bit. Couldn't sleep."
Evan walked over, leaning down to press his lips against the top of her head. He smelled faintly of hotel soap and a lingering, powdery hint of vanilla perfume—a scent Lauren had never owned.
"You worry too much," Evan murmured, pouring himself a glass of filtered water from the fridge. "You need to relax, Lauren. Especially after everything we went through last year. Dr. Harrison said stress isn't good for you."
Dr. Harrison. Her OB-GYN. The man who had confirmed her pregnancy three days ago.
"You're right," Lauren said, watching Evan drink his water. "I need to take better care of myself. How was your flight again? Did you get any sleep on the plane?"
"Not a wink," Evan lied instantly, setting the glass in the sink. "Turbulence was terrible out of Chicago. The guy next to me talked my ear off the whole time. I'm dead on my feet."
"Poor baby," Lauren said, standing up and closing her laptop. She reached out and straightened the collar of his t-shirt. "Go back to bed. I'll be up in a minute."
"Don't stay up too late, okay?" Evan kissed her cheek, completely oblivious to the fact that the woman standing before him was no longer his trusting wife, but an investigator cataloging his every breath.
When he walked back upstairs, Lauren opened her desk drawer, pulled out the little blue gift box with the positive test, and looked at it one last time.
She wasn't going to cry anymore.
May you like
She placed the box in an airtight, fireproof safe behind the books on the lowest bookshelf, locked it, and put the key around her neck beneath her sweater.
"Three weeks," she whispered to the empty room. "I'll give you three weeks to build your own gallows."
