My Husband Faked Mental Illness to Hide His Affair

I bought three hard drives the next morning. Small ones. The kind you could fit in a coat pocket. I paid cash at a tech store in Midtown where nobody knew me.

Back at the penthouse, I locked the bedroom door and copied the dashcam file to all three drives. My hands didn't shake. I was surprised by that. I labeled them with dates that meant nothing to anyone but me. One went into my gym bag. One I would take to Sarah's apartment later. The third I'd put in a safety deposit box I opened that afternoon at a bank Liam didn't use.

Then I went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.

The bottles were right where they'd always been. White labels. Dr. Richards' name printed in small black letters. Liam's name. The dosage instructions. Take one tablet twice daily with food. I'd read those labels a thousand times. I'd refilled them. I'd reminded Liam to take them when he forgot.

I took out my phone and photographed each bottle. The labels. The prescription numbers. The pharmacy information. I opened one and photographed the pills inside. Small. White. Unmarked.

I put everything back exactly as I'd found it.

In the kitchen, I made coffee. Liam came down twenty minutes later, already dressed for the office. He kissed the top of my head and poured himself a cup.

"Sleep okay?" he asked.

"Fine," I said.

He checked his phone. Smiled at whatever he saw there. The same half-smile I'd been watching for weeks now, the one I'd told myself was just him being distracted by work.

"I have back-to-back meetings today," he said. "Probably won't be home until late."

"Okay."

He looked at me. "You sure you're all right? You've been quiet."

"Just tired," I said. "I didn't sleep as well as I thought."

He nodded, already moving toward the door. "Get some rest. I'll see you tonight."

The apartment was silent after he left. I finished my coffee. Then I looked up attorneys in Manhattan who specialized in high-stakes divorce.

The name that kept appearing was Anderson Kelly.

---

His office was downtown, in a building with no doorman and fluorescent lights that hummed too loud. The waiting area had four chairs and a table with old magazines. No performance of wealth. No leather sofas or abstract art.

I liked it immediately.

Anderson Kelly was younger than I expected. Maybe forty. Dark hair going gray at the temples. He wore a suit that fit well but wasn't trying to impress anyone. When he shook my hand, his grip was firm and brief.

"Mrs. Wheeler," he said. "Come in."

His office was the same as the waiting room. Functional. A desk. Two chairs. One window overlooking the street. A single photograph on the shelf behind him, turned so I couldn't see the subject.

He sat down and folded his hands on the desk. "Tell me what's happening."

I told him everything. The dashcam. The bracelet. The three years of believing my husband had Dissociative Identity Disorder. The prescription bottles. The psychiatrist. Georgia's name. The recording of Liam's voice, warm and whole and deliberately, unmistakably himself.

Anderson didn't interrupt. He took notes on a yellow legal pad. When I finished, he set down his pen and looked at me.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want to know if I'm right," I said. "I want proof."

"You already have proof. The recording."

"I want more than that. I want to know if the diagnosis was real. I want to know if the medication is real. I want—" My voice cracked. I stopped. Took a breath. "I want to know if I've been living inside a lie for three years."

Anderson nodded slowly. "We can get that. It'll take time. And it won't be easy."

"I don't need easy," I said. "I need the truth."

He studied me for a moment. Then he stood and walked to the small table by the window. There was a coffee maker. He poured two cups without asking.

"Flat white, one sugar," he said, handing me one.

I stared at him.

"You ordered it at the café downstairs while you were waiting," he said. "I was in line behind you."

I took the cup. It was exactly right.

"We'll start with the psychiatrist," Anderson said, sitting back down. "Dr. Richards. We'll need to approach him carefully. If the diagnosis was fabricated, he's complicit. That gives us leverage."

"And if it wasn't?"

"Then we'll know that too," he said. "Either way, you'll have the truth."

I nodded. Set down the cup. My hands were steady.

"One more thing," Anderson said. "While we're building the case, you'll need to keep living your life as though nothing has changed. Can you do that?"

I thought about the penthouse. About Liam's smile over breakfast. About the bracelet on his wrist.

"Yes," I said. "I can do that."

---

I went home. Liam was already there, standing in the kitchen with his tie loosened. He looked tired.

"Hey," he said. "How was your day?"

"Fine," I said. "Yours?"

"Long." He poured himself a drink. Scotch. Neat. "I'm going to take a shower and go to bed early."

"Okay."

He paused at the doorway. Turned back. "Liv?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you," he said.

I looked at him. At the warmth in his eyes. At the performance of warmth.

"I know," I said.

He smiled and went upstairs.

I stood in the kitchen and listened to the water run. Then I took out my phone and texted Anderson.

*Day one complete.*

His response came thirty seconds later.

*Good. We'll talk tomorrow.*

I deleted both messages. Put the phone away. Went upstairs and got ready for bed.

Liam was already asleep when I slid under the covers. I lay in the dark and listened to him breathe.

I could do this.

I could do this for as long as it took.