My Husband Conspired with His Mistress to Steal Everything

The sound of keys in the lock jolted me from my thoughts. I quickly slid the medical reports under a magazine and took a deep breath. The door swung open, and Jensen stepped in, his expression a perfect mask of concern.

"Darling, I got your message about the bank error," he said, setting down his briefcase. "Is everything alright?"

I studied him—the man I'd loved for three years, the man who'd been plotting my death. His eyes were the same deep blue I'd fallen for, but now I could see the calculation behind them.

"Just a misunderstanding," I replied, my voice steady despite the rage boiling beneath. "The transfer went through fine."

Relief flickered across his face, quickly replaced by practiced worry. "Margot, you shouldn't be handling these things alone. Let me take care of everything."

He reached for my hand, but I pulled away, pretending to wince in pain. "Just tired," I murmured. "The treatments take so much out of me."

Jensen's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then back at me. "It's just work," he said, but his thumb moved quickly across the screen.

"I'm going to rest," I said, rising from the couch. "Dinner will be ready at seven."

As I climbed the stairs, I heard him whisper urgently into his phone: "She knows something's wrong. Get over here now."

---

I didn't have to wait long. Margaret O'Brien arrived precisely at six-thirty, her pearl necklace gleaming against her cashmere sweater. She embraced me with air kisses that never touched my skin.

"Margot, darling," she cooed, her eyes cold. "Jensen told me about your little... episode today."

"Did he?" I smiled weakly, playing the part of the fragile, dying woman. "I'm just trying to get my affairs in order."

Margaret's hand tightened on my arm. "Nonsense. You're not going anywhere. But while you're... indisposed... perhaps you should consider signing over power of attorney to Jensen. Just temporarily, of course."

I lowered myself onto the sofa, letting my shoulders slump. "I don't think that will be necessary."

"Don't be foolish," Margaret hissed, dropping her concerned facade. "Jensen needs security. Think of his future."

"My husband's future is exactly what I'm thinking about," I replied softly.

---

The next morning, I waited until Jensen disappeared into the bathroom before grabbing his phone from the nightstand. My hands trembled slightly as I connected it to the device Victoria had given me.

"Three minutes," I whispered, watching the progress bar crawl across the screen.

Victoria's software worked perfectly. Within minutes, I had access to everything—his banking apps, his hidden messages, his entire digital life.

What I found made my blood run cold.

Monthly transfers to "L.W."—Lyra Wheeler. Payments for a luxury Brooklyn condo down payment. Texts to Franklin Wheeler with updates on "Operation Widow."

But it was the photo that broke something inside me: an ultrasound image with the caption *Future heir to the Henderson fortune.*

I heard the shower shut off and quickly restored the phone to its original state.

---

The Upper East Side baby boutique was exactly the kind of place I'd never shop—too pretentious, too expensive. But Lyra Wheeler apparently had no such qualms.

I watched through the window as she examined a stroller that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Her pregnancy bump strained against her designer dress—my dress, I realized with a jolt.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and approached her.

"That's a beautiful stroller," I said, my voice friendly. "Is it for your first?"

Lyra looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Yes. My husband and I are so excited."

"Your husband must be very generous," I continued, gesturing to the price tag. "Not many men would splurge on such luxury for their mistress."

Her smile faltered for just a moment. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Oh, I think you do." I leaned closer. "Tell me, does Jensen's wife know you're spending her money?"

Recognition dawned in her eyes, followed by something unexpected—not embarrassment or shame, but a cold, calculating anger.

"You're Margot," she said flatly.

"Yes," I replied, waiting for an apology or perhaps fear.

Instead, Lyra's lips curled into a sneer. "You're dead weight, Margot. Some of us are building a legacy; you're just holding onto ghosts."

She placed a protective hand over her belly. "This is the future. Your future ended the moment you signed those papers."

I stared at her, this woman who thought she'd won, and felt something shift inside me. She had no idea what was coming.