My job.
My reputation.
Even my signature.
I called Richard.
“They were here.”
“I know. One of the lender’s attorneys contacted me after receiving notice that I represent you.”
I sat down.
“Richard, how bad is this?”
“For Greg?”
“Yes.”
“That depends on what investigators can prove.”
“For me?”
He paused.
“Financially, we need to confirm there are no other applications or guarantees. Legally, you did the right thing by locking down access.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“I feel like an idiot.”
“Emily.”
“She sat at my table for twelve years.”
“That does not make you an idiot.”
“He lived in my house.”
“That is generally what husbands do.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
Richard continued.
“You trusted two people who had given you reasons to trust them for years. Right now, focus on what you can control.”
That sounded more like me.
“What do we do?”
“We separate the marital issue from the financial investigation. I’ll prepare the divorce filing. We’ll also send formal notice that Greg has no authority to transact on your behalf. I want copies of every card, account, business document, loan request, and communication you can find.”
“I already started a folder.”
“Of course you did.”
By ten that morning, I had transformed my dining table into a document station.
Bank statements.
Credit reports.
Copies of Greg’s business filings.
Old emails.
Loan correspondence.
Tax records.
I hated every minute of it.
But work gave my anger somewhere to go.
Around noon, my phone began ringing from an international number.
I ignored the first call.
Then the second.
Then the third.
A voicemail arrived.
I played it.
Clara’s voice filled my kitchen.
“Emily, please call me. Please. Greg says there’s some kind of problem with the cards. I don’t know what’s happening.”
Some kind of problem.
My phone rang again.
This time I answered.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, all I heard was breathing and resort noise in the background.
Then Clara said, “Emily?”
Her voice sounded nothing like the woman who had told me not to beg.
“What do you want?”
“Please don’t hang up.”
“I’m listening.”
“We’re having a problem with the hotel.”
I looked down at the stack of financial records in front of me.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Greg’s cards aren’t working.”
“They were my cards.”
Silence.
“What?”
“The cards he used were issued through accounts belonging to me. I removed him as an authorized user.”
“You canceled them while we’re in another country?”
“You ran away with my husband and sent me a photograph.”
“I know how it looks.”
I almost laughed.
“How it looks?”
“Emily, please. I know you’re angry.”
“No. You knew I would be angry last night. That’s why you told me not to beg.”
She began crying.
I heard it in her breathing before she made a sound.
“He lied to me.”
I said nothing.
“He told me the house was basically his. He said your finances were all tied together. He said his businesses were doing well and that the two of you had been living separate lives for months.”
That last part landed harder than I expected.
Not because I believed it.
Because she had wanted to.
“Did you ever ask me?” I said.
“Emily…”
“Did you ask me once if my marriage was over?”
“No.”
“Did you ask why I was still cooking dinner with him on Sundays? Why we spent Christmas together? Why he came to my company event three weeks ago?”
“He told me you were keeping up appearances.”
“And you believed him.”
“I wanted to.”
There it was.
The first honest thing she had said.