I opened the ledger first, flipping past columns of numbers until a name caught my eye: Valeria Santos. Next to her name were monthly installments routed through a complex web of shell accounts, culminating in a final transaction dated just two weeks ago. But the most terrifying detail was written at the top margin of the page in Alejandro’s familiar, sharp handwriting: Contingency fund. Secure storage active.
I scrambled back to my feet, grabbed the identity document from the first package, and carried it under the bright light of the hallway. The identification card was issued by the state authorities, confirming her full name as Valeria Santos, born in Puebla. Her status as a wife wasn’t some distant past; according to the renewal date stamped on the back of the card, she had been registered just three years into my own marriage to Alejandro. He had been living a double life, maintaining a secret household across the country while playing the devoted husband in our home, keeping her personal effects buried beneath my side of the bed like a trophy or a twisted insurance policy.
The nausea rose in my chest again, but this time it was mixed with a cold, clear fury. For weeks he had called me obsessed. He had gaslit me into believing my senses were failing, telling me to find another problem while he slept soundly every night inches away from hidden evidence of a crime or a betrayal so profound it defied comprehension.
I knew I couldn’t just sit and wait for him to return on Sunday. If Alejandro discovered I had sliced open the mattress, the consequences wouldn’t just be the end of our marriage—they could be lethal. He had looked at me with genuine terror when I merely touched the mattress cover; finding his secret vault exposed would push him over the edge.
I needed to move fast.
