A Prenuptial of Perfect Revenge

The first day my husband, Caleb, was away on a business trip, I received a call from a high-end tattoo studio.

The voice on the other end was polite, yet tinged with uncertainty. "Hello, I'm calling from the studio. Am I speaking with a family member of Mr. Caleb Reed? We're calling to confirm the design details for his appointment to modify a couple's tattoo."

My heart sank. Modify our couple's tattoo?

I shoved down the rising panic and dialed Caleb's number. I decided to test him.

"Honey, did you buy something this afternoon? I just got a fraud alert on your Amex from a tattoo studio."

Caleb paused for half a second before letting out a soft chuckle.

"Oh, that. I was booking it for a friend from my college fraternity. The guy got drunk and ended up with some random ink he regrets and wants to get covered up."

I forced a cheerful note into my voice. "Okay," I said. After hanging up, I called the studio again, my voice now glacial.

"Send me your studio's address. I'm coming over to confirm the appointment in person."

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1

I rushed to the tattoo studio.

When the receptionist saw me, she pulled up the appointment record, ostensibly to confirm the design.

On the screen was the modification sketch attached to the appointment.

I saw with chilling clarity that my husband, Caleb, intended to change the "Eternal Compass" we had designed together, tattooed on his lower back, into an arrow. The fletching of the arrow was even inked with the letter "C."

My gaze froze. Just then, the receptionist helpfully added, "Mr. Reed also wanted to review the security footage to check the lighting in the lounge area."

The screen switched, and a familiar figure appeared. It was my husband, Caleb Reed.

Standing beside him was a young woman in a skintight dress that clung to her every curve.

On the lounge sofa, Caleb pulled her into his arms and bent down to kiss her. A necklace around her neck glinted under the light.

My stomach plummeted. Caleb had bought it last month using my supplementary card.

I took out my phone and snapped a photo of the modification sketch and the security footage.

"The design is great," I said calmly to the receptionist. "I have a friend who also wants to design a tattoo. Could you send me the high-resolution sketch file for reference?"

She agreed without a second thought.

When I returned home, the penthouse apartment in Tribeca was dead silent.

My feet carried me to Caleb's study on autopilot.

On his desk, the unique vintage Montblanc fountain pen I had given him was gone.

I opened the company's internal messaging software and pulled up the list of interns. Faces flashed by until my finger stopped on one name—Chloe Archer.

It was the girl from the security footage.

Closing the application, I made a call.

My best friend, private investigator Maya Singh, answered, her voice crisp and efficient. "Well, hello, Juliet. It's a rare day I get a call from you."

"I need you to run a check on someone for me," I said, my voice unnervingly calm. "She's a new intern at our company, Chloe Archer. Also, dig up all of Caleb's social media and spending records for the past six months. I want everything."

Maya was silent for a second. "Is Caleb in trouble?"

"Worse than that."

Just as I hung up, Caleb's call came through.

His voice was as gentle as ever. "Juliet, are you busy?"

"No. Just got home."

"How was your day? Are you tired?"

"It was fine," I replied, my voice flat.

"I'll be back from my trip tomorrow. I got you a present, I promise you'll love it."

He was still speaking in that tender tone, but his voice made my stomach turn.

"Great. Can't wait," I cooed, my voice saccharine.