My Husband’s Mistress Received a Gift With My Name on It
Chapter 4
THEME: FONT SIZE: 18pxAnd by sunrise, I had one question left.
How long had Preston been preparing for the day I finally found out?
PART 2: EVERYTHING HE PUT IN MY NAME
I didn't sleep.
I drove to the Harbor Hotel downtown and booked a room under Hart, my maiden name.
It wasn't a dramatic decision.
I simply couldn't bear to sleep anywhere Preston knew to look for me.
The woman at the front desk smiled and wished me a merry Christmas.
I almost laughed.
Upstairs, I placed the Bellamy & Rowe receipt on the desk beneath the lamp.
$18,750.
It had seemed enormous six hours earlier.
Now it looked almost petty.
I spent the rest of the night pulling my financial life apart.
There is a strange kind of terror in seeing your own name attached to choices you never made.
Your name becomes evidence against you.
Vivian H. Whitmore.
There I was on the credit report.
There I was on the loan.
There I was supposedly applying for credit thirteen months ago while I had actually been in Connecticut caring for my mother after her knee replacement.
There I was again six weeks later, supposedly authorizing a second account on a day when Preston and I had been in Napa for our anniversary.
I remembered that trip.
A vineyard.
A beautiful hotel.
Rain tapping against the windows.
Preston kissing my shoulder while I signed a stack of papers he'd brought with him.
"Year-end restructuring," he'd said.
"You brought paperwork to our anniversary?"
He'd laughed.
"Marry a Whitmore, marry the paperwork."
I had signed because I trusted him.
That memory made me physically sick.
At seven in the morning, I called the one person I knew Preston would never call first.
My attorney.
Not our attorney.
Mine.
Her name was Lena Brooks.
I'd met her years earlier when she helped me review documents before my marriage. Preston hated her almost immediately because Lena had a habit of reading every page twice and believing charm was not a substitute for clarity.
She answered on the fourth ring.
"Vivian?"
"I'm sorry."
"What's wrong?"
"I need you to tell me what not to do."
She became fully awake at once.
"Where are you?"
"A hotel."
"Are you safe?"
"Yes."
"Did Preston hurt you?"
"Not physically."
There was a silence.
"Tell me."
So I did.
Not emotionally.
Not yet.
I told her facts.
The Christmas gift.
The receipt.
The account.
The other debts.
When I finished, Lena exhaled slowly.
"Do not confront him."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good. Do not sign anything. Do not agree to meet him alone if you feel pressured. Freeze your credit with all three bureaus. Call every institution connected to an account you don't recognize. Request the applications, signature records, mailing addresses, phone numbers, and transaction histories."
"I already froze one card."
"Good."
"There's almost four hundred thousand dollars."
"I heard you."
"How does someone do this for more than a year without me knowing?"
The question came out smaller than I intended.
Lena's voice softened.
"Someone who knows your life has advantages a stranger doesn't."
That hurt because it was true.
Preston knew my mother's maiden name.
My Social Security number.
My old addresses.
My signature.
The answers to security questions.
He knew which financial mail I opened and which envelopes I handed to him because he said he'd take care of them.
He knew exactly how much I trusted him.
Trust had been his password.
At 8:16, Preston called.
I watched his name light my phone.
I didn't answer.
He called again.
Then a text came.
Where are you?
Another.
You embarrassed my mother by leaving like that.
I stared at it.
That was the first thing he wanted me to know.
Not that he was sorry.
Not that he wanted to explain Sloane.
That I had embarrassed his mother.
A third message arrived.
We need to talk when you've calmed down.
I sent Lena a screenshot.
She replied immediately.
Do not respond emotionally.
I smiled without humor.
Preston had spent years telling me I was too emotional whenever my feelings became inconvenient.
Now restraint was going to become the thing he feared most.
I typed:
I need some time. I'll contact you when I'm ready.
He responded within seconds.
Vivian, don't be childish.
Then he called again.
I turned off the sound.
By noon, the first bank had emailed preliminary copies of statements.
The card ending 4417 had been opened fourteen months earlier with an online application.
The contact email belonged to Preston's executive assistant.
The mailing address was Whitmore Capital.
The phone number was Preston's private office line.
The charges told their own story.
Restaurants I had never visited.
Hotels where I had never slept.
Flights I had never taken.
May you like
Lingerie I had never worn.
Flowers I had never received.
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