Defeating Ridge's Schemes

The fluorescent lights in the police station buzzed overhead like angry wasps, casting everything in harsh, unforgiving white. I sat in a plastic chair that squeaked every time I shifted, my designer luggage looking absurdly out of place beside Detective Sarah Martinez's cluttered desk. The orchids I'd brought for Ridge lay wilted in their cellophane wrapping, their pristine petals already browning at the edges.

Ridge arrived forty minutes after my call, striding through the precinct doors with the confident gait of a man accustomed to being in control. But when his eyes met mine, there was no warmth, no relief at seeing his wife after a year apart. Instead, I saw calculation—the same look he wore when preparing for a difficult cross-examination.

"Detective Martinez," he said, extending his hand with practiced charm. "Ridge Stephens, attorney at law. I understand there's been some confusion."

Confusion. As if my inability to enter my own home was merely a clerical error.

Detective Martinez, a woman in her forties with graying temples and tired eyes, gestured for Ridge to sit. "Mr. Stephens, your wife here claims she lives at the residence, but the young woman inside says otherwise. Can you clarify the situation?"

Ridge settled into the chair beside me without so much as a glance in my direction. "Of course. Kamryn Edwards is my paralegal. She's been staying at our home temporarily due to a family emergency—her grandmother requires round-the-clock care, and Kamryn couldn't afford both her rent and the medical expenses."

The explanation rolled off his tongue with lawyer-like precision, each word carefully chosen. I stared at his profile, searching for any hint of the man who used to trace patterns on my back while we talked about our future.

"And your wife?" Detective Martinez's pen hovered over her notepad.

"Blaire has been working abroad for the past year. The Hartwell Industries project in London." Finally, he looked at me, but his gaze was clinical, detached. "She wasn't supposed to return until next month. I changed the security code for safety reasons while she was away—standard precaution when a home is temporarily occupied by someone else."

Each word felt like a small betrayal. He spoke about me as if I were a business associate, not the woman who'd shared his bed for three years.

"I see." Detective Martinez made a note. "Mrs. Stephens, is this accurate?"

My throat felt tight. "The project details are correct, but—"

"Jet lag can be disorienting," Ridge interrupted smoothly. "Blaire's probably exhausted from the flight. International travel takes a toll."

The dismissal in his voice made my chest burn. This wasn't jet lag or confusion. This was my husband treating me like a stranger while defending the woman wearing his sweatshirt in my house.

Twenty minutes later, we were in Ridge's BMW, driving through Seattle's evening traffic in suffocating silence. The city lights blurred past my window as I tried to process what had just happened. Ridge's explanation had been plausible enough for the police, but something felt fundamentally wrong. The way he'd looked at Kamryn when she'd appeared in the doorway—protective, almost tender. The way he'd spoken to me—cold, distant, as if I were an inconvenience rather than his wife returning from a successful year abroad.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd changed the code?" I finally asked as we pulled into our driveway.

"I didn't think you'd be back so early." His tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "The Hartwell contract wasn't supposed to close until December."

"I wanted to surprise you."

He killed the engine but didn't move to get out. "Well, you certainly did that."

The house felt different when we entered together. Not just because of Kamryn's presence—she'd disappeared upstairs when we arrived—but because something essential had shifted in the space I'd called home. The air itself seemed charged with tension, thick with unspoken truths.

I headed straight for the living room, needing to ground myself in familiar surroundings. But when I reached the corner where my grandmother's memorial shrine had always stood, my breath caught in my throat.

The small mahogany table was still there, but everything had been moved. The framed photograph of Grandma Rose—the one where she was laughing in her garden, dirt under her fingernails and joy in her eyes—had been shifted to the back. In its place sat a generic vanilla candle, the kind you'd buy at any drugstore, instead of the hand-poured lavender one I'd specially ordered because it was her favorite scent.

The small ceramic dish where I kept her rosary had been moved aside to make room for a coffee mug bearing the logo of some trendy café. Even the lace doily she'd crocheted, which I'd always kept perfectly centered, was askew.

"Ridge." My voice came out as a whisper. "Who moved Grandma's shrine?"

He appeared in the doorway, loosening his tie. "Kamryn probably just dusted. She's been helping keep the house clean."

"Dusted?" The word came out sharp, disbelieving. "This isn't dusting. Someone rearranged everything. Moved her photograph. Put their coffee mug—"

"Blaire, you're overreacting."

But I wasn't overreacting. This was sacred space, the one corner of our home dedicated to the woman who'd raised me, loved me unconditionally, and died while I was in my second year of marriage. Ridge knew how important this shrine was to me. He'd held me while I cried setting it up, understood that it was my way of keeping Grandma Rose close.

Footsteps on the stairs announced Kamryn's return. She descended slowly, her hand trailing along the banister, and when she reached the bottom, the overhead light caught something at her throat.

My grandmother's cross necklace.

The delicate gold chain with its simple crucifix—the one Grandma Rose had worn every day of her life, the one she'd pressed into my palm during her final moments in the hospital—hung around this stranger's neck as if it belonged there.

The room tilted. Blood roared in my ears.

"Take it off." The words came out low, dangerous.

Kamryn's hand flew to her throat, fingers closing protectively around the cross. "What?"

"That necklace. Take it off. Now."

Her eyes darted to Ridge, seeking support. "Ridge gave this to me. He said—"

"He said what?" I stepped closer, my voice rising. "That he could give away my dead grandmother's jewelry? That he could let you desecrate her memory?"

"Blaire, calm down." Ridge moved between us, his hands raised as if I were a wild animal he needed to contain. "You're clearly exhausted. Maybe you should get some rest."

But I was done being dismissed, done being treated like my pain didn't matter. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down. That necklace is all I have left of her, and you—" I pointed at Kamryn, my hand shaking with rage. "You're wearing it like some cheap trinket."

Kamryn's face flushed red. "I didn't know it was—I mean, Ridge just said it was a gift. I would never—"

"Get out." The words tore from my throat. "Get out of my house. Both of you, just get out."

The silence that followed was deafening. Ridge's jaw tightened, and in his eyes, I saw not understanding or apology, but annoyance. As if my grief, my fury at this violation of everything sacred, was nothing more than an inconvenient tantrum.