He shrugged, smile too smooth. She moved out of state years ago before we got serious. That was the first time I heard her name—Ariel Cade. It landed like something rehearsed.
Is she coming to the party? I asked.
A hesitation. Maybe, he said. I sent her an invite. She’s in town.
My stomach twisted. That night I stopped by his office. I wasn’t supposed to be there—I’d found an envelope in the kitchen, documents he’d forgotten to take with him that morning, and decided to drop them off. His assistant blinked in surprise.
“Oh, I thought Mr. Ren was working from home today.”
I smiled politely. The pieces were aligning.
Two days later his phone passcode changed. He claimed it was company policy—something about cybersecurity. A new protocol. His tone was clipped, final. Then came the real slip‑up.
We were reviewing the menu for the rooftop event: shrimp canapés, lamb skewers, dessert options. He mentioned someone had suggested a lemon mousse.
“Who?” I asked, stirring my tea.
“Oh, just the caterer,” he said without looking up.
That night, while cleaning up, I glanced at his planner. An open page filled with menu notes in his handwriting. One line circled: Ari loves citrus. Not a caterer. Ari—short, familiar—a name worn smooth from frequent use. I didn’t confront him. Not yet. Instead, I started planning.
That weekend, while Julian was supposedly meeting a vendor in Harbor Point, I found his laptop open on the kitchen island. He rarely left it unattended. Careless, I clicked through folders, keeping my breathing steady. In the downloads folder a PDF itinerary stared back at me: spa retreat, two guests. The weekend he claimed he’d be in Vancouver for a conference. Guest names: Julian Ren, Ariel Cade.
I didn’t gasp, didn’t scream. I copied the file onto a USB I normally used for tax documents. My hands shook, but I moved with quiet efficiency. I was no longer in doubt. It wasn’t just a flirtation. It wasn’t just a lie. It was a plan.
The next clue was buried in his email, left open by accident days later. One subject line: dosage instructions from a pharmacy I didn’t recognize. I clicked. Administer no more than 2.5 milliliters per drink. Causes dizziness, confusion, disorientation. Not detectable in standard panels. The timestamp matched the same day he said he was scouting venues. Another message: pre‑order confirmation. A Kade.
I didn’t need to guess. The compound had been ordered for her or with her, and I was the intended recipient. The air around me thickened. The house I’d built my life in began to feel like someone else’s stage.
I found more: a screenshot of a text conversation saved as an image file, probably exported from a secure app. It read: Julen, she’ll be out before dessert. Just keep her distracted.