Chapter 4 of My Husband Stole My Life for His Billionaire Mistress

The escrow paperwork sits on my desk like a loaded gun. I've read it six times. The routing structure is clean. Legal. Almost elegant.

Marceline's name is on the deed. That part is public record. But the sale proceeds don't flow directly to her account. They move through Archway Capital LLC first—one of Andrew's shell companies, the same one I photographed in his study. Standard practice for high-net-worth transactions. Privacy protection. Asset management.

Except I'm the listing agent. I'm the one who sets up the escrow instructions.

I open my laptop. Pull up the closing documents. My fingers remember the work—the logic, the architecture. I was an engineer before I was anything else.

I create a trust account. Beneficiary: Marceline Flores. Trustee: A law firm I researched for three days. Reputable. Discreet. Expensive.

I reroute the proceeds. Not theft. Not fraud. Asset protection for a pregnant woman whose husband might not have her best interests at heart. Any competent attorney would recommend the same structure.

I just don't tell her I'm doing it.

The changes take forty minutes. I save the documents. Queue them for the title company. My thumb moves across my wrist.

Andrew will expect the money to hit Archway Capital's account the day escrow closes. He'll wait for the transfer. Check his balance. Check again.

And find nothing.

By the time he realizes what happened, Marceline's assets will be locked in a trust he can't touch without her signature. And I'll be the only person who knows where the money went.

I close my laptop. Drink my cold coffee.

I am not his victim anymore.

---

The showing runs late. A hedge fund couple from Singapore. They want to see everything twice. Ask about things that don't matter. I smile. Answer questions. Show them the closets again.

It's past nine when I leave the building. The subway station is four blocks south. I walk fast. Hands in my pockets. The street is empty except for a few people walking dogs.

The black SUV pulls up beside me at the second block.

I keep walking. My heart hammers against my ribs but my pace doesn't change.

The SUV moves ahead. Stops. Two men get out.

They don't run. Don't rush. They just stand there blocking the sidewalk. Waiting.

I stop six feet away. The first man is tall. Thick neck. Hands in his jacket pockets. The second man is shorter. Wider. He leans against a chain-link fence like he has all the time in the world.

"Alessia Torres," the tall one says. Not a question.

I don't answer.

"You owe some people money," he continues. His voice is flat. Bored. "Andrew Carlson's people. The kind of debt that compounds daily."

I look at him. Then at the second man. Then back.

"Your silence has a price," the tall one says. "Right now, that price is manageable. Next week, it won't be."

The shorter man smiles. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to.

I stand perfectly still. My hands stay in my pockets. My thumb presses against my wrist.

I meet the tall man's eyes. Hold them.

I don't speak. Don't move. Don't give them anything.

After thirty seconds, the tall man's smile fades. Something flickers across his face. Uncertainty. Confusion.

People who are afraid talk. Explain. Negotiate. Beg.

I do none of those things.

The shorter man shifts his weight. Glances at his partner.

I turn. Walk past them. My shoulder almost brushes the tall man's jacket.

Neither of them stops me.

I hear the SUV doors close behind me. The engine starts. They drive away.

I walk the remaining two blocks. Unlock my apartment door. Lock it behind me.

I sit on the floor with my back against the wall.

My hands shake now. Now that no one can see.

I pull out my phone. Open my notes app. Add two lines:

*Intimidation. Witness tampering.*

The list is getting longer.

---

Andrew arrives three days later. Morning. I'm still in the T-shirt I slept in. Hair tied back. No makeup.

He knocks like he's worried. Gentle. Persistent.

I open the door.

"Alessia." His face is creased with concern. "I heard what happened. Are you okay?"

I don't ask how he heard. I step aside. Let him in.

He looks around my apartment. At the mattress on the floor. The single window. The water stain on the ceiling. Something crosses his face—guilt, maybe, or its performance.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "I never wanted you involved in this. The company has some complicated debt structures. Investors who don't always follow conventional collection methods."

He sits on the folding chair near my kitchen table. I stay standing.

"I can fix this," he says. "But I need your help."

He pulls a document from his messenger bag. Sets it on the table. Smooths it with his palm.

"This releases you from any corporate liability. You relinquish equity in Axiom Technologies and accept a structured settlement for outstanding obligations. Five million. Paid over thirty-six months."

I look at the paper. At the numbers. At my name typed at the bottom.

"Sign this and they leave you alone," Andrew says. His hand reaches across the table. Touches my forearm. That gesture. The one he's used a thousand times. "I'm trying to help you, Alessia. I've always been trying to help you."

I pick up my pen. The one that arrived from Amazon four days ago. The one that looks exactly like every other pen.

I read the document. Slowly. Andrew watches. His knee bounces under the table.

The brooch on my collar sits perfectly still. Silver. Ordinary. Recording.

I sign my name at the bottom. Neat. Careful. Alessia Marie Torres.

Andrew exhales. Smiles. Squeezes my arm.

"Thank you," he says. "You're doing the right thing."

He takes the document. Folds it. Slides it into his bag.

"I'll have my attorney file this today," he says. "You're protected now."

He stands. Moves toward the door. Turns back.

"I never stopped loving you," he says. "You know that, right?"

I look at him. At his face. The face I used to trace in the dark.

"I know," I say.