Chapter 3 - The Velvet TrapOver the next four days, playing the part of the devoted, ignorant wife required a terrifying level of self-control.
Bennett was practically vibrating with nervous energy. The prospect of his promotion to Senior Vice President had gone to his head; he spent his evenings pacing around our living room on hushed phone calls, presumably talking to Naomi or my mother, coordinating the timeline for when he would finally file for divorce and discard me like an outdated appliance.
On Friday night, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and leaned against the kitchen counter, looking at me with a condescending, patronizing smile.
"You know, Helena, you've been unusually quiet this week," he remarked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Everything okay at the design studio?"
"Just busy with the new commercial account," I replied smoothly, chopping vegetables for a salad without looking up. "Lots of deadlines."
"That’s good," he chuckled, stepping closer and resting a hand on my shoulder—the same heavy, threatening hand he had placed there in the hospital hallway while plotting my ruin. "Because soon, we’re going to have some big conversations about our future. You deserve to slow down, honey. Let me take care of things."
You already tried, I thought bitterly. You just charged it to my credit cards.
"I’m looking forward to it, Bennett," I said, offering him a sweet, blank smile that he completely misread as submission.
He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. "You're a good woman, Helena. People don't appreciate how much you put up with."
With that, he grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door, claiming he had to meet a client for drinks downtown. I knew exactly where he was going. He was going to the Bloomington apartment to visit Naomi and his infant son—the son who supposedly looked just like him, carried his name, and was being raised on my stolen capital.
As soon as his car engine faded down the driveway, I picked up my phone and dialed a private courier service.
It was time to set the first piece of dominoes in motion.
On Saturday morning, while Bennett was still sleeping off his late-night excursion, an anonymous package was delivered to my mother’s suburban home. Inside was a single, printed copy of the corporate filing for Vanguard Solutions, along with a handwritten note penned in block letters:
The state audit office has received the primary ledgers. We suggest consulting a criminal defense attorney before Tuesday.
Within twenty minutes of delivery, my phone rang.
It was my mother. Her usual composed, aristocratic demeanor was entirely shattered, her voice trembling with raw panic.
"Helena?" she blurted out the second I answered. "Helena, do you know anything about—did someone come to your house? There’s been some terrible mistake—"
"Mom, I’m right in the middle of a design review," I interrupted, my tone icy and completely devoid of warmth. "If this is about family drama, call Naomi. She’s the one playing mother right now."
"Helena, listen to me!" she shrieked, panic escalating. "Your sister... the apartment... the funds we allocated—it was a loan! Just a family loan! If the state gets involved, Bennett will lose his promotion, and everything we built will—"
"You built nothing, Mom," I said quietly. "You just stole from the wrong daughter."
I hung up the phone and blocked her number instantly.
I walked over to the living room window, parting the sheer curtains just enough to watch the quiet suburban street. Down the block, I could see Bennett’s phone lighting up repeatedly on the kitchen counter as text messages and frantic voicemails flooded in from both my mother and Naomi.
May you like
He hadn't looked at his phone yet. He was still sleeping upstairs, dreaming of his corner office, his new family, and his stolen millions.
Enjoy the rest of the weekend, Bennett, I thought, letting the curtain fall back into place. Tuesday is coming fast.
