My Husband's Secret Scorecard He Fined Me but Spoiled His Mistress

"Fine," I said.

The next day, Brad went to the firm to work overtime. Something about a big case he needed to follow up on.

I grabbed a rag and a bottle of disinfectant and started cleaning. Living room to bedroom. Kitchen to study.

The study was his territory. I wasn't allowed to touch his files. It was written right there in the rules: "Unauthorized access to the other party's private documents: minus 50 points."

I wasn't planning to touch his files today.

I turned on his desktop computer.

He was the type to password-protect everything. But I knew his password. It wasn't his birthday. It wasn't mine, either. It was the date he'd received his bar certification.

I typed it in. The desktop loaded.

His work computer and home computer were synced through the same cloud account. I opened the cloud drive and typed a keyword into the search bar: Chase Bank.

A few folders popped up. I clicked the most recent one.

Inside were digital transaction receipts, one after another. I scrolled down. Down to the seventeenth of last month.

A wire transfer receipt.

Sender: Brad Mason.

Recipient: Mary Pruitt.

Amount: $300,000.00.

Memo: None.

The sending account ended in 4321. That was our household fund.

I stared at the string of zeros on the screen. Counted them three times.

Three hundred thousand dollars.

He'd taken the money we saved together and used it to bail out his intern. Three hundred thousand dollars' worth.

And when my father was in the ICU, he'd made me sign a promissory note at prime plus thirty percent.

I picked up my phone and photographed the receipt.

Then I kept digging.

I found a folder labeled "Miscellaneous." It was full of images. I clicked the first one.

A handwritten penalty slip. Pink stationery.

"Mr. Mason didn't eat his veggies today—one cuddle session revoked! —Your personal supervisor, Mary."

Dated six months ago.

The second one.

"Mr. Mason stayed up past midnight—penalty: one Chanel bag! No appeals accepted!"

The third.

"Mr. Mason looked at another girl for more than three seconds—penalty: take me to the movies this weekend AND pay for everything!"

There were dozens of them. Every single one was flirty and playful. Every single "punishment" was either a cute demand for affection or a request for a gift.

I stared at those slips.

And I thought about mine.

"Towels not folded to regulation. Fine: $200."

"Unauthorized consumption of premium groceries. Pay via QR code."

"Dishes washed but countertop not wiped. Minus 10 points."

I sat in his leather executive chair.

And I laughed.

Laughed until tears ran down my face.

So he wasn't born cold-blooded. He wasn't incapable of tenderness.

He'd simply given all his rules and rigidity to me. And all his indulgence and sweetness to Mary Pruitt.

I selected every image in the folder, zipped them into a single file, and sent it to my encrypted email. Then I cleared the sent history.

I opened my analytics software. As a data analyst, building relational models from massive datasets was what I did best.

I logged into the online banking portal for the account ending in 4321. He'd changed the password, but I was on his computer, and the browser had auto-saved his credentials.

Login successful.

Account balance: $3,450.50.

Three years. Over six hundred and fifty thousand dollars in our household fund.

Reduced to three thousand four hundred and fifty dollars.

I exported every transaction from the past three years. Saved them as a spreadsheet. Sent it to my email.