And they hadn’t been bought by Garrett.
The purchases were executed using the premium, platinum loyalty account of Eleanor Mercer. Garrett’s mother. My mother-in-law.
“She knows,” Colleen breathed, her eyes wide with sheer horror. “Eleanor knows about the mistress. She knows about the baby.”
I stared at the screen, a profound, violent wave of nausea washing over me.
Eleanor, the woman who had hugged me at Thanksgiving. The woman who had given me a “fertility prayer candle” for Christmas. The woman who had watched me weep at her dining room table over my negative pregnancy tests, offering me fake, pitying comfort.
She had known the entire time.
She wasn’t just covering for her son’s infidelity. She was actively, happily shopping for her illegitimate grandchild, funding the nursery for his mistress using money from my joint business account, while treating my pain like a spectator sport. She was a complicit, sociopathic accomplice in the destruction of my life.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t smash the computer.
I calmly walked over to the printer. I printed every single receipt, every lease agreement, every bank statement, and the medical file screenshot Dr. Petrova had risked her license to show me.
I carefully, meticulously slid each printed page into a heavy, clear plastic sleeve. I placed them into a massive, thick, navy-blue, three-ring binder.
It was the “doomsday binder.” A physical, undeniable manifestation of airtight, legally devastating evidence, prepared for the perfect moment of execution.
I snapped the heavy metal rings of the binder shut. The sound echoed in the quiet office with the chilling, absolute finality of a coffin lid slamming closed.
“When do we end him?” Colleen asked quietly, looking at the binder.
I looked at the calendar on the wall. It was late June.
“Garrett just invited the entire neighborhood over for his annual Fourth of July barbecue,” I said, a cold, terrifying smile touching my lips. “He’s eager to play the role of the perfect American patriarch and announce my pregnancy to the block.”
I picked up the navy binder and slid it into my large tote bag.
“I think we should let him have his party,” I whispered. “But the fireworks I have planned won’t be contained to the sky.”
Chapter 3: The Spark
The backyard of our sprawling, split-level suburban home smelled of burning charcoal, expensive sunscreen, and staggering, suffocating hypocrisy.
It was a beautiful, cloudless Fourth of July afternoon. The yard was packed with nearly fifty people—neighbors, local friends, and extended family. The patio speakers were playing upbeat, classic rock. Children were running through the sprinklers, their laughter echoing over the sizzle of the grill.
