1 “Congratulations, Jacob.” I stood at the entrance of the hotel ballroom, my eyes fixed on the sea of red balloons inside. “Happy wedding day.” With a deliberate motion, I set the funeral wreath down on the polished floor. It was a stark circle of white chrysanthemums, draped with a black satin ribbon. Inscribed on it were the words: May You Rest in Peace, Jacob. The bride shrieked. The color drained from the groom's face. I smiled, pulling out my phone. “Don’t worry. The police will be here any minute.” The maximum sentence for bigamy is two years. And he and I? We hadn’t even torn up our marriage certificate yet. Three days earlier. I was organizing Jacob’s suitcase. He’d told me he was heading to Seattle for a week-long business trip. As I straightened a suit jacket, a small card slipped from the pocket. A hotel reservation confirmation. The location wasn’t Seattle. It was Savannah. And the date was for three days from now. I kept searching. Tucked into a shirt pocket was a photograph. I picked it up, and the blood rushed to my head. Two people smiled back at me. Jacob, and a woman I’d never seen before. He was in a tuxedo, she was in a wedding gown. The background was unmistakable: the grand steps of City Hall. I flipped the photo over. A single line was written on the back: March 15, 2024, Savannah. This year. We’ve been married for eight years. We are not divorced. I took a deep, shuddering breath and placed the photo back where I’d found it, zipping the suitcase shut just as Jacob walked out of the bathroom. “All packed?” he asked, his voice as normal as ever. “All set.” I looked at him—at that square jaw, the strong brows, the wide, honest eyes that had made me fall for him all those years ago. He was thirty-five, the very picture of dependability. “Honey, this trip might take a little longer than I thought,” he said, his tone casual. “How long?” “A week, maybe a bit more. It’s a complicated project.” He hoisted the suitcase. At the door, he turned back. “Take care of Lily for me.” Lily. Our six-year-old daughter. “I will.” The door clicked shut. In that same instant, I pulled out my phone and opened the tracking app. Yes, I’d installed one on his phone a long time ago. Last year, when his “business trips” became more and more frequent. I told myself it was just for peace of mind. Turns out, a woman’s gut feeling is never wrong. The tracker showed him on the way to the airport. It was time to get to work. I opened my laptop and logged into our joint bank account. I had the password to his salary account; in eight years of marriage, he’d never changed it. I pulled up the transaction history, my eyes scanning line by line. March 15, 2024. Wire Transfer to Ava Monroe. $10,000. Memo: Wedding Expenses. My hand started to tremble. I kept scrolling down. January 2024. Wire Transfer to Ava Monroe. $6,000. December 2023. Wire Transfer to Ava Monroe. $6,000. November 2023. Wire Transfer to Ava Monroe. $6,000. … I scrolled all the way to the beginning. The transfers started in June of 2021. Four thousand dollars. Every. Single. Month. For three years. That was over $150,000. Jacob’s monthly take-home pay was $8,000. Mine was $5,000. Our mortgage was $4,000 a month. Lily’s private school was another $1,500. I covered all the household expenses. He always told me he could never seem to save any money. Now I knew where it had all gone. I took screenshots of everything. Then I checked his PayPal and Cash App. Another forty thousand dollars in transfers. The grand total was nearly $200,000. Eight years of marriage. I paid for our life, while he paid for another woman’s. I laughed. It was a brittle, broken sound that ended in a sob. Wiping my tears, I kept digging. I found an “Ava Monroe” in his contacts, labeled as “Seattle Client.” I found her on Instagram. Her profile was private, but her latest post wasn’t. It was a professional wedding photo. The caption read: Finally found my forever. Here’s to the rest of our lives. The location tag: Savannah Bridal Photography. I slammed my phone down on the table. Breathe. Stay calm, I told myself. This isn’t the time to fall apart. I picked up the phone and called my cousin, Sarah. She’s a lawyer. “Sarah, I need your help.” “What’s wrong?” “My husband… he married another woman.” Three seconds of dead silence on the other end. “Are you sure?” “I have a picture. Taken at City Hall.” “Okay. Don’t do anything. Don’t touch a thing. I’m on my way.” Twenty minutes later, Sarah was sitting at my kitchen table, looking over the mountain of evidence I’d collected. She finally looked up, her expression grim. “Cathy, what do you want to do?” “I want him in jail,” I said, my voice cold and steady. Sarah nodded. “Bigamy carries a sentence of up to two years. But…” she paused, “you’ll need more than this. This photo proves they had a ceremony, but not that they filed a legal marriage certificate.” “How do I get that?” “You’d have to check the county records. But you can’t, since you aren’t one of the parties.” I thought for a moment. “Her name is Ava Monroe.” “Do you know her social security number?” “No.” Sarah’s brow furrowed. “Okay, look. I have a friend who’s a PI. I can have him run her name, see what comes up.” “Do it.” She made a quick call. After hanging up, she looked at me again. “There’s one more thing you need to prepare for.” “What?” “Start looking at your assets. The house, the cars, savings. If he really committed bigamy, splitting everything is going to get very, very messy.” My heart sank. The house. The deed was in Jacob’s name. When we bought it, the down payment was $150,000. I put in $90,000, he put in $60,000. But he’d said putting it in his name alone would make getting the mortgage easier. I’d agreed. God, I was such a fool. “Also,” Sarah added, “you can’t let him know you’re onto him. Act like everything is normal.” “I know.” I stared out the window. Night had fallen. Jacob’s tracker showed him in Savannah. The Seattle business trip was a complete lie. The hotel reservation he’d booked was for three days from now. Three days. His wedding day. With another woman. Something else clicked in my memory. Last Christmas. Jacob had said he had a work emergency and had to go back to the office the day after Christmas. I took Lily to my parents’ house. A couple of days later, my mother-in-law called me. “Cathy, dear,” she’d said, “Jacob mentioned you two went to Hawaii for the holiday?” I knew something was off, but I didn’t push it. I just replied, “Yes, it was a company trip.” I didn’t want to air our dirty laundry in front of his mother. Now I knew. He wasn’t at work that Christmas. He was in Savannah. Spending the holidays with her. While I was at my parents’ house, waiting like an idiot for his calls. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Jacob. Hey honey, made it to Seattle. Hotel is great. Don’t worry about me. His words were so tender. Okay. Get some rest, I typed back. Then I hung up and stared at the glowing dot on my screen. Savannah, Georgia. I let out another humorless laugh. 2 The next day, Sarah’s PI friend sent over his findings. Ava Monroe, 29, resident of Savannah. Unemployed. She owned a condo in her name. A nice one, in a gated community downtown. The property was registered in May 2022. Purchase price: $500,000. Paid in full. Cash. I did the math. From January to May of 2022, Jacob had transferred over $150,000 to her. Where did the rest come from? I checked Jacob’s 401(k) records. In April 2022, there was a hardship withdrawal of $100,000. He’d told me he was using it to pay down our mortgage. I’d believed him. Now I knew it was to help his mistress buy her half-a-million-dollar condo. $150,000 from his salary, $100,000 from his retirement fund. That still left a $250,000 gap. I logged into his brokerage account. March 2022. He’d sold a large block of stock, cashing out $260,000. That was our joint investment account. Our money. He told me the stock had tanked and he’d sold it at a huge loss. He’d lied. He cashed it out to buy a home for his mistress. I saved every document, every screenshot. I made three copies. One on the cloud, one for Sarah, and one on a flash drive that I locked away at my parents’ house. “There’s still one piece missing,” Sarah told me. “What?” “The marriage certificate. You absolutely have to get a copy of their certificate or the official record from the county clerk’s office.” “How?” “Their wedding day. Find a way into their hotel room during the chaos and look for it.” I considered it. “And if I can’t find it?” “Then you call the police. Let them get a warrant for the records.” “But I’d need evidence to file a report—” “You have the photo from City Hall,” Sarah reminded me. “It’s enough to open an investigation. Once the police are involved, they can subpoena the marriage records.” I nodded slowly. “One last question,” I said. “What is it?” “Should I tell his mother?” Sarah studied my face. “Do you want to?” I was silent for a long moment. My mother-in-law, Martha, had always been decent to me. But she adored her son. Last year, when Jacob wanted a new car, Martha gave him $20,000 without a second thought. When I was pregnant and suffering from terrible morning sickness, she’d just said, “Every woman goes through this. Just tough it out.” During the month I was on bed rest in the hospital, she never visited once. “No,” I said finally. “I won’t tell her.” Sarah nodded in approval. “Good. Don’t say a word. If she’s the type to protect her baby boy at all costs, she’ll tip him off, and you’ll lose your advantage.” I moved on to the next phase of my plan. The wedding was the day after tomorrow. I’d already found the venue online. A five-star hotel in Savannah’s historic district. A grand ballroom. The online RSVP list had over a hundred guests. The bride’s family, the groom’s family— Wait. The groom’s family? I scanned the guest list again. There was one name under the groom’s party. Martha Miller. That was my mother-in-law’s name. My hands started to shake. His mother knew? His mother was attending their wedding? Suddenly, I remembered. Last week, Martha had told me she was going to visit relatives in Savannah. She’d said she’d be gone for a week. She wasn’t visiting relatives. She was here to attend her son’s second wedding. I laughed. This time, the tears flowed freely. Eight years. I had served this family for eight years. When Martha was sick, I took time off work to care for her. I bought gifts for every holiday, every birthday. I was the one who handled our daughter’s school, her doctor’s appointments, everything. And this was my reward? She was celebrating at her son’s wedding to his mistress. What was I? A joke? I wiped my eyes, my resolve hardening into something sharp and cold. I picked up my phone and dialed her number. “Hi, Martha. How are you enjoying your trip to Savannah?” “Oh, it’s lovely, dear. My cousins are taking such good care of me,” she chirped, her voice perfectly normal. Not a hint of guilt. “That’s wonderful. When are you coming back? Lily misses you.” “In a couple of days. You just take good care of Lily, okay?” “Of course, Martha.” I ended the call. Fine. They’re a family. Then they can go down together.
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