Chapter 5 - MY HUSBAND’S SECOND LIFEI was discharged from the hospital the following morning under strict instructions.
Rest.
Hydration.
No unnecessary stress.
The doctor actually said those words while my husband’s company was fighting my family in court, his mistress had been arrested for kicking me, and detectives were reopening questions surrounding a dead compliance officer.
I almost asked whether she prescribed a private island.
Nathaniel refused to let me return to the house I shared with Preston.
“You’re staying with me.”
“I’m thirty-three.”
“And extremely pregnant.”
“That doesn’t make me twelve.”
“No. It makes stairs annoying.”
I gave up.
My uncle lived in a historic house in Highland Park that looked imposing from the street and surprisingly ordinary inside.
Books everywhere.
Old family photographs.
A kitchen he never used.
His longtime housekeeper, Maria, cried when she saw me and then immediately began feeding me.
For the first time in months, I felt safe.
That should have comforted me.
Instead, it made me realize I had not felt safe at home.
Laura arrived around noon.
“The judge denied Hartwell’s emergency request.”
Relief passed through me.
“So the vote stays canceled.”
“Postponed indefinitely.”
“What did the judge say?”
“That the court would not compel a charitable trust to approve a complex transaction while material questions existed regarding authorization documents.”
Nathaniel smiled.
“Translation: Preston’s lawyers embarrassed themselves.”
Laura ignored him.
“More important, the foundation board has authorized a forensic audit.”
“How far back?”
“Five years.”
“Does Hartwell have to cooperate?”
“We control access to the trust’s own records. Anything beyond that may require subpoenas or litigation.”
My phone rang.
My mother-in-law.
Victoria Hartwell.
I stared at the screen.
She had not contacted me once since the assault.
Laura noticed.
“Want privacy?”
“No.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
Victoria’s voice was smooth.
“Emily. I’ve been trying to give you space.”
“Very generous.”
A pause.
“I understand you’re upset.”
“I was kicked while eight months pregnant, Victoria.”
“I heard Savannah behaved appallingly.”
“Behaved appallingly.”
“I’m not defending her.”
“Then why are you calling?”
Another pause.
“Because Preston is devastated.”
I looked at Laura.
“He looked devastated when he watched me hit the floor.”
“Emily, marriages survive terrible moments when both people refuse to let outsiders exploit them.”
There it was.
The Hartwell worldview.
No betrayal mattered as much as public exposure.
“Nathaniel isn’t an outsider.”
“He has always disliked Preston.”
“He also never slept with Preston’s mistress.”
Victoria inhaled sharply.
“Must we speak crudely?”
“Apparently we must speak clearly.”
“Savannah is a mistake.”
“How long?”
Silence.
“How long has my husband been sleeping with her?”
“That is something you should ask Preston.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He lies.”
Victoria’s voice cooled.
“You need to think about your child.”
I touched my belly.
“I have thought about my child more in the last forty-eight hours than Preston has.”
“That’s unfair.”
“No. Unfair was being assaulted while he watched.”
“Preston says he froze.”
I laughed.
“Preston has negotiated billion-dollar acquisitions across three time zones. He doesn’t freeze.”
“Emily—”
“I’m filing for divorce.”
The silence lasted nearly five seconds.
When Victoria spoke again, her voice belonged to a different woman.
“You should not make threats you don’t understand.”
I went still.
“Excuse me?”
“Divorce from Preston will be complicated.”
“I have a lawyer.”
“Family law is not the only issue.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You signed a prenuptial agreement.”
“Yes.”
“And several estate documents.”
I looked at Laura.
“What estate documents?”
Victoria went quiet.
Too quiet.
“I’m sure your attorney can explain.”
She hung up.
Laura was already on her feet.
“Where are your personal files?”
“At the house.”
“Originals?”
“I think so.”
“Did Preston manage your estate planning?”
“He recommended the attorney.”
Her expression told me enough.
“Of course he did.”
Within two hours, Laura had brought in a family-law attorney named Rebecca Sloan.
Rebecca was forty-four, sharp, direct, and apparently allergic to wasted words.
“First question,” she said. “Do you want a divorce, or are you considering one?”
“I want one.”
“Good. Certainty makes my job easier.”
Nathaniel nearly choked on his coffee.
Rebecca continued.
“Second. Any reason to believe Preston will hide assets?”
“Yes.”
“Any reason to believe he’ll fight custody?”
My hand went instinctively to my belly.
“I don’t know.”
“Assume yes.”
My throat tightened.
“He watched someone kick me.”
“Then document everything.”
“He’s the father.”
“Correct. Which means we deal with law and evidence, not wishful thinking.”
She turned to Laura.
“Estate documents?”
“We’re obtaining copies.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Do not enter your marital home alone. Do not meet Preston privately. Do not sign anything. Communicate in writing whenever practical.”
“My clothes are there.”
“We can retrieve them.”
“My mother’s jewelry.”
“We’ll inventory it.”
“My life is there.”
Rebecca softened slightly.
“No. Your belongings are there.”
That sentence stayed with me.
That evening, a process server delivered Preston’s first legal response.
He opposed temporary exclusive possession of the house.
He requested preservation of marital assets.
And, unbelievably, he alleged that Nathaniel was manipulating me while I was “medically and emotionally vulnerable.”
I read that phrase three times.
Emotionally vulnerable.
The polished cousin of hormonal.
“Can he use my pregnancy against me?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“He can say whatever his lawyers are willing to put on paper. Evidence matters.”
“Why mention Nathaniel?”
“To build a narrative that your uncle engineered the commercial fallout.”
Nathaniel looked furious.
Rebecca pointed at him.
“And you will not react publicly.”
He leaned back.
“I run a hospital.”
“You also have a face that suggests you’d enjoy throwing Preston out a window.”
“I would never damage hospital property.”
For the second time that week, I laughed when I thought laughter had become impossible.
The next morning, Rebecca arranged for an off-duty officer and a licensed inventory specialist to accompany me to the house.
Preston was not supposed to be there.
He was.
His black Mercedes sat in the driveway.
Rebecca called his attorney.
Ten minutes later, Preston walked out.
He stopped when he saw me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
This was the man whose chest I had slept against.
The man who knew I hated cilantro.
The man who held my mother’s old earrings while I fastened them.
The man who once drove four hours because I mentioned missing a bakery from college.
Were those moments fake?
I still didn’t know.
That uncertainty was crueler than a clean lie.
He approached slowly.
“You look better.”
“Move away from me.”
He stopped.
“I never wanted Savannah to hurt you.”
“You wanted something to happen.”
“I was talking about legal pressure.”
“You said I’d have something more important to worry about.”
“Yes. The foundation vote. The pregnancy. I don’t know. I was angry.”
“Convenient.”
His eyes flicked toward the officer.
“This doesn’t need to become war.”
“You should have thought of that before forging my signature.”
“I did not forge it.”
“Then tell me who did.”
He looked away.
And there it was again.
A door he refused to open.
I entered the house.
Everything looked exactly as I had left it.
The blanket folded on the couch.
My mug beside the sink.
A pair of Preston’s cuff links on the counter.
The normality made me nauseated.
Upstairs, my closet appeared untouched.
Then I opened the drawer where I kept my mother’s jewelry.
Empty.
I stopped breathing.
“Rebecca.”
She entered.
“What?”
“My mother’s things are gone.”
“What exactly?”
“Jewelry. Letters. Her watch. A small lockbox.”
The inventory specialist began photographing.
I turned toward Preston, who stood in the hallway.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“You live here.”
“So do you.”
“Not since your girlfriend kicked our child.”
His face tightened.
“I didn’t take them.”
“Then who did?”
No answer.
We searched the office next.
My personal file cabinet had been opened.
Not broken.
Opened with a key.
Inside were tax returns.
Insurance policies.
Medical paperwork.
But the folder marked MERCER ESTATE was missing.
Then I noticed something on Preston’s bookshelf.
A framed photograph had shifted.
Behind it was a small black box with a blinking light.
Rebecca saw it too.
“What is that?”
The officer removed it carefully.
A miniature camera.
Pointed directly toward Preston’s desk.
Preston’s face changed.
“That isn’t mine.”
Rebecca looked at him.
“Your house has hidden surveillance?”
“I said it isn’t mine.”
The officer found two more.
One facing the front hallway.
Another in the kitchen.
Neither was part of the home security system.
Then, behind the television, we found a network recorder.
The officer disconnected it.
“Looks like local storage.”
“Who installed it?” I asked.
Preston was pale.
“I have no idea.”
For once, I believed him.
Back at Nathaniel’s house, a forensic technician examined the recorder.
The cameras had stored approximately six weeks of footage.
Most was ordinary.
Me making breakfast.
Preston leaving for work.
Deliveries.
Cleaning staff.
Then we found the night Preston claimed he had first slept with Savannah.
He had lied.
The footage showed Savannah entering our house at 11:48 p.m.
Three months earlier than he admitted.
Preston opened the door before she knocked.
She kissed him immediately.
I was visiting a college friend in Austin.
We fast-forwarded.
Two hours later, they sat at the kitchen table with documents spread between them.
The audio was faint but usable.
Savannah said, “Once Emily takes control, it gets harder.”
Preston replied, “Then we close before her birthday.”
“She won’t sign knowingly.”
“She doesn’t need to.”
I felt physically ill.
Then a third person entered.
Victoria Hartwell.
My mother-in-law.
She sat down without removing her coat.
Her first words were perfectly clear.
“Tell me you finally found someone who can copy Emily’s signature.”
I stared at the screen.
Rebecca exhaled slowly.
Laura whispered, “There it is.”
But Victoria continued.
“And after the baby arrives?”
Preston rubbed his face.
“One problem at a time.”
“She becomes more difficult to separate from you once there’s a child.”
Savannah leaned back.
“Unless Emily thinks leaving means losing custody.”
My blood turned to ice.
Preston looked directly at Savannah.
“What did you do?”
Savannah smiled.
“Nothing yet.”
The recording ended twenty minutes later.
I sat in silence.
They had discussed my marriage.
My signature.
My daughter.
My fear.
As if I were not a human being.
As if I were an obstacle in a transaction.
Then the technician opened another date.
The night before Savannah attacked me.
At 2:14 a.m., someone entered our dark kitchen.
Not Preston.
Not Savannah.
A man wearing a baseball cap and gloves.
He went directly to my purse.
Removed my driver’s license.
Photographed it.
Then walked upstairs.
Toward our bedroom.
I stopped the video.
“Who is that?”
Nobody answered.
The technician zoomed in.
As the man turned, the camera caught his profile.
Laura recognized him first.
“Oh, my God.”
“What?”
She pulled up a photograph from Hartwell Capital’s leadership page.
The same man stared back at us.
Graham Voss.
Chief legal officer.
May you like
The attorney who had escorted Savannah from the hospital.
And the man who had removed something from my bedroom less than twelve hours before I was attacked.
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