The next morning, I all but ran through the familiar streets to John’s studio. I needed the safety of his arms, the steadiness of his mind. Once I was with him, I finally let myself cry. I told him about the envelope, stumbling over the words, and I watched the color drain from his face.
John did not waste time on empty reassurances. He understood right away how dangerous the situation was. He took my hands in his and held them firmly, as if he could pass some of his strength into me. We both knew our affair was no longer just an affair. It had become a fight to stay alive.
He insisted we needed professional help, someone who could untangle the financial web Alexander had built. He suggested we go to an old college friend of his, a lawyer named Victor Kravitz, a man known for being honest and impossible to buy. Victor also had his own reasons for despising the corrupt system my husband had used so well.
Our first meeting with Victor took place late one rainy evening in a small, forgettable café on the edge of town. He listened carefully while I told him everything, making short notes in a worn leather notebook. There was something in his serious, thoughtful expression that gave me my first real sense that justice might still be possible.
Victor warned us plainly that one old letter was not enough to bring down a man as powerful as Alexander. We needed hard proof—documents showing exactly how he had moved my father’s assets into secret accounts and shell companies. That meant I would have to go back into my husband’s office and copy data from his protected computer.
The next few weeks were a strain unlike anything I had ever known. Every minute felt loaded with the risk of discovery. I watched my husband’s routines closely, studied his habits, and looked for the smallest opening in the control he kept over the house. By sheer luck, I managed to catch the password to his laptop one evening when he had been drinking and checked his email.
My chance came during a sudden business trip that was supposed to keep him away for two full days. Late that night, with a small flashlight and a flash drive in hand, I slipped into his office as quietly as a burglar in my own home. My fingers shook over the keyboard while the system loaded endless columns of numbers and fake company names.
I copied one encrypted file after another, and as I did, I began to understand the scale of what he had done. Then I noticed a hidden folder on the desktop labeled with a single letter: “J.” Curiosity got the better of caution. I clicked it, already feeling something cold settle in my stomach.
The screen filled with color photographs taken from disturbingly close range, clearly by a private investigator. There we were—John and I—in the park in fall, outside his studio, inside his car. My breath caught in my throat as I understood, all at once, how badly we had misjudged the situation…
