Five Years Of Lies: The Wife's Awakening

Ariana POV

"I found the address," Dibby announced, breaking the silence.

It was 2 a.m.

I was sitting cross-legged on her living room floor, a chaotic sea of legal pads and printed bank statements fanned out around me.

"Where?" My voice was hoarse.

"It's not a P.O. Box anymore," she said, tapping her laptop screen. "I tracked the car registration from a parking ticket Kayla got last week. She lives in Highland Park."

Highland Park.

My breath hitched. That was the most expensive neighborhood in the city.

"She isn't a struggling single mom," I whispered, the realization settling like a stone in my gut.

"No," Dibby corrected, her eyes dark with sympathy. "She's living in a mansion paid for by your fiancé's daddy."

I needed to see inside.

I couldn't just knock on the door and ask for the truth.

"I need a uniform," I said.

Dibby grinned, a sharp, predatory look. "I have a client who owns a pest control company. Give me until morning. I can get you a jumpsuit and a clipboard by breakfast."

By 10 a.m., I was parked outside the gated driveway of 42 Oak Lane.

I wore a baggy blue jumpsuit with "City Pest Control" embroidered on the pocket.

My hair was tucked severely under a cap.

I buzzed the intercom, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"City inspection," I said, dropping my voice an octave to sound bored and official. "Checking for termite activity in the neighborhood."

The gate clicked open.

The house was massive-a modern fortress of glass, steel, and expensive, manicured silence.

A maid opened the front door.

"Ms. Reese is out at yoga," the maid said. She looked tired, her shoulders slumped. Her nametag said Maria.

"I just need to check the perimeter and maybe the basement," I said, keeping my head down, scribbling nonsense on my clipboard.

"Go ahead," Maria sighed, stepping back. "Just don't wake the boy. He's napping."

I walked through the house.

It was filled with toys. Obscene, expensive toys. Electric cars, designer clothes scattered across marble floors.

"Nice place," I commented to Maria, who was trailing me half-heartedly.

"It's okay," she shrugged. "Lonely. Except when the grandparents come."

I froze.

"The grandparents?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Donovan," Maria said casually. "They come every Tuesday. They always bring toys for Leo."

My blood ran cold.

"And the father?" I asked, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat.

"Mr. Ivan? He comes on Fridays," Maria said. "Stays for dinner usually."

My stomach twisted violently.

Fridays.

Ivan always had "late board meetings" on Fridays.

"He's a good dad," Maria added, oblivious to the devastation she was dealing. "Loves that boy."

I nodded, afraid to speak, afraid I might scream.

I walked down the hallway.

The door to a playroom was open.

I stepped inside.

It was a child's paradise.

But my eyes went straight to the easel in the corner.

It was a painting.

It was done in oils, clearly commissioned, not a child's drawing. It was permanent.

It depicted a bucolic picnic scene.

Leo was in the center, a cute boy with Ivan's eyes.

Kayla was next to him, laughing.

Ivan was on the other side, his hand resting possessively on Kayla's knee.

And standing behind them, looking like proud patriarchs, were Richard and Eleanor.

At the bottom of the canvas, a small brass plaque read:

Our Happy Family - 2023.

2023.

That was this year.

This wasn't the past.

This wasn't "charity."

This was a parallel life.

I stared at Ivan's painted smile.

It was the same smile he gave me when he proposed.

The same smile he gave me when he lied about the phone call.

I took a picture of the painting with my phone, my hands surprisingly steady.

Then I took a picture of the family photos on the mantle. Ivan holding baby Leo. Ivan kissing Kayla's cheek at Christmas.

I felt a strange sensation in my chest.

It wasn't pain anymore.

Pain implies you are still alive.

This was numbness.

Absolute zero.

I walked out of the room.

"All clear," I told Maria.

"Good," she said.

I walked to my car.

I sat in the driver's seat and looked at the photo of the painting on my phone.

Our Happy Family.

It was a beautiful painting.

It would look even better on a projector screen in front of three hundred people.

I started the engine.

The tears didn't come.

Only a cold, dark resolve.

I wasn't just leaving.

I was going to make sure that when I left, there would be nothing left of Ivan Donovan but ash.