For 6 Years, My Husband Faked the Same Conference—So I Followed Him and Found His Second Home
Chapter 3
Two evenings later, Terrence told me he had a regional business reception and would be home late.
“Spouses invited?” I asked.
“Technically. You’d hate it.”
“Maybe I’ll come.”
His answer came too quickly.
“Why are you making everything difficult lately?”
That settled it.
I wore a navy dress and arrived alone.
Terrence stood near the center of a downtown ballroom beside his regional vice president, Richard Boyd—and the woman from Charlotte.
Her curls were pinned back exactly as they’d been at the airport.
Terrence saw me and nearly dropped his glass.
“Nikki. I thought you were staying home.”
“I changed my mind.”
I looked toward the woman.
“Are you going to introduce us?”
“This is Brianna Cole. Director of Regional Client Experience.”
Interesting.
The printed program in my hand called her a consultant.
“Congratulations,” I said. “Terrence must enjoy working with somebody so familiar with his travel schedule.”
His fingers tightened around his glass.
Ten minutes later, another manager approached us.
“Did Charlotte give you enough rest?” she asked Terrence. “You looked exhausted before vacation.”
“Vacation?” I repeated.
The woman’s smile vanished.
Terrence cut in. “My assistant coded the calendar wrong.”
“I thought it was your annual conference,” I said.
The manager frowned. “The leadership conference? That moved to Atlanta years ago.”
Richard appeared almost immediately and changed the subject.
Five minutes later, he left the reception.
In the car, Terrence accused me of embarrassing him.
The next morning, Brianna was waiting beside my car outside a grocery store.
“I don’t want a scene,” she said.
“Then don’t ambush another man’s wife beside the shopping carts.”
Her expression tightened.
“Terrence said you’ve been acting suspicious.”
“Terrence says many things.”
She folded her arms. “You know about us.”
“I watched you kiss him at the Charlotte airport.”
The color left her face.
“He told me you were separated in every way that mattered.”
“We share a bed, a mortgage, tax returns, and coffee every morning. Did he mention that?”
“He said he stayed because of your health after the miscarriage.”
For one second, I couldn’t breathe.
Then anger steadied me.
“Our child died two years ago. Your relationship began long before that.”
Brianna looked away.
“He was going to file after the year-end corporate review.”
“How convenient.”
“Ashmont was supposed to be transferred to me afterward.”
That caught my attention.
“Transferred?”
She hesitated.
“Once the financing was cleaned up.”
“Cleaned up how?”
“Richard said the existing payment history could cause questions if the review went deeper. Terrence was going to consolidate the debt.”
“With what money?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“A home-equity line.”
My heartbeat slowed.
“On which home?”
She stared at me.
“Glenwood.”
Our house.
The home where I had carried our baby.
The home where I had returned after losing him.
“Terrence said you handled the finances and would sign.”
“When?”
“This weekend.”
I felt something inside me become perfectly calm.
My husband wasn’t merely planning to leave me.
He intended to use my signature to secure a $180,000 line of credit against our home, use that money to clear the debt on his secret townhouse, and then transfer the townhouse to his mistress.
“He told you I agreed?”
“He said it was routine.”
I opened my car door.
“Brianna, ask yourself something. If Ashmont is safely his, why does he need my signature to protect it?”
She said nothing.
Terrence came home that evening carrying white roses.
He hadn’t brought me flowers in nearly a year.
“Peace offering,” he said.
“Brianna called you.”
His expression barely moved.
“She said you confronted her.”
“She waited beside my car.”
“She shouldn’t have.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
His answer was immediate.
“No.”
That was the last illusion I lost.
Terrence didn’t lie because he was frightened.
He lied because lying had become maintenance.
Like paying insurance.
He took my hands. “Nikki, look at us. Work, grief, suspicion—it’s poisoning everything. Let’s get away for our anniversary. Anywhere you want.”
“Lisbon?”
His face softened.
“You’ve always wanted Lisbon.”
For one dangerous second, I remembered our wedding. Terrence dancing barefoot with me after the band packed up. Terrence promising no ambition would ever make us strangers.
Memory can resemble hope if you don’t inspect it carefully.
“After the year-end review?” I asked.
“After everything is settled.”
Settled.
Meaning Ashmont refinanced.
Meaning my signature obtained.
Meaning his exit prepared.
“I’ll think about it.”
He kissed my forehead.
Over his shoulder, his phone lit up.
Brianna: Did she believe you?
That night, I told Sandra to file.
