Chapter 2When His $5k Story Met the $500k Truth

The color drained from Nathan's face.

It was only for a second, but I saw it.

Then he chuckled, taking the phone from me. "Max? Oh, that's my subordinate's son. She's a single mom, things are tough for her. The kid got sick, she must have panicked and called me."

"A subordinate?"

"Yeah, her name's Isabelle. Just started last year. Her husband's working abroad, so she's raising the kid on her own." He slipped the phone into his pocket. "I'm her boss. I have to help out sometimes."

I stared at him.

He met my gaze, his expression open and honest.

"You don't believe me?" He smiled. "Fine, I'll delete her contact. Here, you can watch."

He pulled out his phone, opened his contacts, and scrolled to a name.

The profile picture was of a very young woman, posing with a little boy.

The child looked about five or six, with a bright, happy smile.

Nathan hit delete.

"There. Happy?" He waggled the phone at me. "Seriously, you're overthinking things."

I didn't say a word.

He patted my shoulder and walked into the bedroom.

That night, he slept soundly.

I didn't.

I waited until I was sure he was asleep, then quietly got out of bed and took his phone.

He had deleted the contact, but not the call history.

I found the number—the one ending in 6677.

There were so many calls.

At least two or three every week.

Sometimes he called her, sometimes she called him.

The longest one was forty-seven minutes.

I wrote down the number, put the phone back, and returned to bed.

The next day, I contacted a private investigator.

It wasn't that I couldn't find things out myself. It was that I needed professional, undeniable proof.

"This phone number. I need to know who it belongs to, where they live, and what they do."

The investigator was a man in his forties with a calm, seen-it-all expression.

"Alright. You'll have your answers in three days."

I went home, and life continued as normal.

I cooked, took care of Phoebe, and waited for Nathan to get home from work.

He acted just like he always did. Came home, ate dinner, scrolled on his phone, showered, and went to bed.

As if nothing had happened.

On the third day, the investigator called me.

"Mrs. Davies, we have the results."

"Tell me."

"The number belongs to a Ms. Isabelle Reed. She's thirty-two years old and currently resides at the Willow Creek Estates in the southern district."

Willow Creek Estates.

I knew the place.

A new luxury development that opened three years ago. The average price was over a million dollars for a condo.

The place we lived in was worth a quarter of that.

"She owns a 1,300-square-foot condo, which she moved into in 2022. She also has a car, a BMW X3, purchased in 2021."

"Did she buy the condo and the car herself?"

"The property was paid for in cash," the PI said, pausing for effect. "The payer was not her."

My knuckles went white as I gripped my phone.

"Who was it?"

"The system shows a wire transfer from a corporate account. The legal representative of that corporation is—Nathan Davies."

Nathan.

I closed my eyes and took a deep, shaky breath.

"What else?"

"Isabelle Reed has a son. He's eight years old, his name is Max. The father's name is left blank on the birth certificate. However—"

He paused again.

"However?"

"We checked through some other channels. The boy's private kindergarten and elementary school tuition fees were all paid from Nathan Davies's bank account. And every year, during winter and summer breaks, Nathan is the one who takes the boy on vacation."

I heard myself laugh.

A quiet, dry, brittle sound.

"Is there more?"

"One last thing," the investigator said. "The title deed for Ms. Reed's condo has two names on it. Hers, and—"

"Nathan Davies."

"Correct."

I hung up the phone and sat in my car for a long time, the engine off.

Eight years old.

The boy was eight years old.

Nathan and I had been married for eight years. Our daughter, Phoebe, was six.

That meant the boy existed before Phoebe was even born.

Before we were married—no, wait.

We got married in 2016.

The boy was born in 2016.

I thought back to the spring of 2016.

Nathan and I had just gotten engaged and were planning the wedding.

One night, he told me he had a last-minute work emergency and had to go on a business trip for three days.

When he came back, he gave me a diamond necklace, saying he'd picked it up for me while he was away.

I was so happy.

I thought he loved me so much.

It turned out he spent those three days with another woman while she gave birth to his son.

I went home. Nathan wasn't back from work yet.

I sat alone in the living room, staring at our wedding photo on the wall.

It was taken eight years ago. We were smiling so sweetly.

I was twenty-six then. I had just quit a decent job at a good company, ready to become a full-time housewife after the wedding.

Nathan had said, "Just relax and stay home. You've got me."

I believed him.

Not only did I believe him, I was grateful.

I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world to have found a man who wanted to provide for me.

For eight years, I never bought a piece of clothing that cost more than fifty dollars.

Because every time I bought something a little more expensive, Nathan would frown.

"Our budget is tight. You need to be more frugal."

I switched my skincare from designer brands to drugstore ones.

I swapped my designer-adjacent handbags for ones I found online.

I even used the personal savings my mother gave me to help with household expenses.

Because Nathan said business was slow, and he was under a lot of pressure.

I felt sorry for him.

I wanted to share his burden.

And him?

He bought another woman a luxury condo.

He bought another woman a new car.

He sent her tens of thousands of dollars every month, for eight straight years.

Over eight years, that had to be at least three million dollars.

I did a quick calculation.

An average of $30,000 a month is $360,000 a year. Over eight years, that's $2.88 million.

Add the down payment on the condo, the car, the private school tuition—

At least four million dollars.

And what about me?

How much money had I spent in those eight years?

I tried to think, but I couldn't calculate it.

Because the amount was so small.

So small I couldn't even remember what I'd bought.

At six o'clock, Nathan came home.

"You didn't cook tonight?" he asked, taking off his shoes and walking into the living room.

I sat on the sofa, watching him.

"Nathan."

"Yeah?"

"Who is Isabelle Reed?"

He stopped in his tracks.

But he recovered almost instantly.

"I already told you, she's my subordinate."

"Then who is Max Reed?"

This time, his expression finally cracked.

"You've been investigating me?"

"I wasn't investigating you," I said, standing up. "I was investigating the woman who's been living off our family's money for the past eight years—to the tune of four million dollars."

Nathan was silent.

He stood by the doorway, not moving forward, not backing away.

After a long moment, he sighed.

"I was going to tell you, when the time was right."

I laughed.

"The right time? You couldn't find it in eight years?"