On a Sunday, a traffic violation alert popped up on my phone out of nowhere. Your vehicle was illegally parked at [location] on [date]. Please move your vehicle immediately...
The notification caught me off guard. I stared at it, confused.
Hadn't my husband already sold that car?
The money from the sale had gone straight toward covering the losses from his failed business venture.
At first, I figured it was a system error.
Then, a week later, another parking violation came through. This time, the location was near our home.
Curiosity got the better of me. I went to check it out in person and found my car parked right outside a restaurant.
A woman walked out. She had a sizable baby bump, looked like she was close to her due date.
And that woman was none other than Boris Harding's former assistant from his startup days.
...
I watched the car pull away until the red taillights blurred into the darkness, their glow faintly stinging my eyes.
My mind raced. Had my husband sold my car to his assistant?
Instinctively, I pulled up the woman's Instagram, hoping to find some kind of confirmation.
Sure enough, there were traces of my car all over her feed.
In one photo taken inside the car, she was posing with someone. The other person's face wasn't visible, but I recognized the shirt he was wearing instantly. It was a designer button-down I'd given Boris for our fifth wedding anniversary.
Something heavy lodged itself in my chest.
When I got home, Boris didn't walk through the door until nine that night. He looked exhausted, but he still forced a smile. "Babe, why are you still up? Didn't I text you that I'd be working late tonight?"
The word babe made my stomach turn.
I looked up at him and asked casually, "Boris, who did you end up selling our car to?"
His chopsticks froze mid-air. "Why are you suddenly asking about that?"
"Just curious." I watched his reaction closely. His eyes blinked rapidly, and his gaze darted away.
It reminded me of a crime drama I'd watched. Suspects who reacted like that were usually hiding something.
"Oh, I was in such a rush at the time, I just found some random used car dealer and let it go. Every penny went toward paying off the debt." His expression quickly shifted to one of guilt and remorse. "Honey, that car was a wedding gift from your family. I'm so sorry..."
I looked at that pathetic performance of his.
A bone-deep chill crept through me. I thought about how he'd sobbed in the middle of the night after his business collapsed, and how I'd stood by him without hesitation, handing over the car myself so he could sell it.
And this was what I got in return.
"Don't worry. I'm going to work harder and give you the life you deserve." He dropped that line and headed for the shower.
The moment he was gone, I quietly re-downloaded the car's companion app and the DMV traffic app, both of which I'd deleted months ago.
I opened the traffic app first. The violation records were right there, plain as day. They hadn't even bothered to remove the registration from my name.
Then I opened the car app and pulled up the recent dashcam footage.
In the exterior camera feed, Boris had his arm around Rachel Fleming on multiple occasions as they strolled past the front of the car. There was footage of the two of them embracing, kissing passionately, right there in the frame.
In one clip, Rachel's voice came through clearly: "Baby, when are you going to divorce that washed-up wife of yours?"
"Our baby's almost here. I don't want our child coming into this world without a legitimate father."
