PART 3
In the six days leading up to the grand corporate gala, I played the part of the fragile, unravelling wife perfectly. Whenever Christopher brought up my supposedly failing mental health, I simply nodded timidly and feigned confusion, ensuring that every single conversation was recorded on my phone and forwarded directly to my legal team.
I had also secretly saved a liquid sample from an anniversary dinner we shared earlier that week. Christopher had reached across the table to touch my hand while subtly sliding his fingers over my wine glass when he thought I was looking away. I had pretended to take a sip, feigned a sudden dizzy spell, and poured the remaining liquid into a sealed glass vial in my purse. The independent laboratory results came back two days later, confirming the wine was laced with a high dose of a dangerous prescription sedative I had never been prescribed.
Additionally, a brave young staff accountant at his firm named Chloe came forward after realizing she was being set up to take the fall for Christopher’s fraudulent accounting schemes. Chloe handed over a thumb drive containing thousands of internal emails, forged wire instructions, and altered tax documents, which allowed state prosecutors to quietly open a massive criminal file against my husband.
The most heartbreaking confrontation came from Beatrice, who dropped by my office three days before the event to pressure me once more. “Christopher has sacrificed so much for you over the years, Gwen,” she snapped impatiently. “Your father has been dead for years, so stop acting like that old house is a sacred shrine.”
“Have you sacrificed anything yourself to help his company, Beatrice?” I asked softly, staring right into her cold eyes.
She went completely silent, refusing to meet my gaze.
My attorney had pulled public property records that morning and discovered that Beatrice had signed a massive four million dollar mortgage guarantee against her own suburban home in Milwaukee to secure a high interest loan for Christopher months ago. She truly believed the funds were used to save her son’s software company, but bank statements showed that Christopher had transferred the entire sum directly to Valerie the very next morning to pay for a luxury penthouse suite in downtown Atlanta.
I chose not to reveal the truth to Beatrice just yet, because I wanted her to hear it in front of the very high society elite she loved to boast to.
On Friday night, the grand ballroom of the luxury hotel in Detroit was packed with wealthy venture capitalists, prominent news journalists, and major corporate creditors. Christopher stood near the main entrance wearing a expensive tuxedo, flashing a brilliant smile for the press cameras, while Valerie stood beside him in a glittering red evening gown, resting her hand proudly over her pregnancy bump. Beatrice sat at a VIP table right near the main stage, glowing with arrogance as if her son were about to receive a lifetime achievement award.
I walked into the ballroom twenty minutes late, wearing a simple navy blue dress and the vintage gold bracelet my father had given me when I graduated from architecture school. Christopher froze for a brief second when he spotted me, but quickly recovered his composure and stepped forward to greet me under the flashing lights.
