My husband thought the worst thing that happened that day was his mistress crashing my Mercedes.
He was wrong.
I came home from a business trip two days early and found a police cruiser in my driveway. My garage door was open, and the empty space where my silver Mercedes should have been told me everything was already bad.
Trevor stood in the hallway, pale and silent.
The officer explained that my car had been totaled in an accident. The driver was a woman named Candace Thompson. She claimed my husband had given her permission to drive it.
I looked at Trevor.
He couldn’t meet my eyes.
“My name is the only name on that registration,” I said. “I never gave her permission.”
Trevor whispered, “Simone, please.”
But I was done protecting him.
I filed the report.
At first, he thought it was only about the car. Then the investigation uncovered hotel bills, hidden transfers, secret gifts, and months of money he had quietly taken from our accounts to support Candace.
The Mercedes was expensive.
But it became the cheapest thing he lost.
Two weeks later, Candace faced charges, Trevor received divorce papers, and every lie he had buried was sitting in my lawyer’s office.
He lost the car.
Then he lost the house.
And finally, he lost the woman who had paid for both.
