“Why does your flight show up as canceled, Lauren?”

Edward stood in the kitchen doorway. His voice was completely calm, but his eyes were hard and fixed on me. He held my passport in his right hand.

The certified notary envelope was hidden right under a stack of home decor magazines on the counter. My fingers were still damp from wiping down the cutting board.

My heart was beating so hard I could hear the pulse in my ears. I didn’t want him to see me shake, so I forced myself to pour water into the coffee maker.

I kept my voice flat, telling him the airline sent a notification about a system error and that I was about to call support.

He didn’t move. He stood there, watching me with that familiar, analytical look he used when he was trying to figure out if a client was lying.

He told me to let him handle it, saying he would call the priority desk because we couldn’t have me missing such an important meeting.

I watched him step out onto the back porch. He started pacing on the grass, his expensive leather loafers sinking slightly into the damp clay lawn.

That was his favorite spot for private business calls. It was the same lawn I had mowed myself for five years because he insisted a landscaping service was a waste of money.

I need to back up for a second. I know how this sounds.

You probably think I’m stupid. Honestly, looking back, I think I am too.

Edward and I had been married for eight years. We lived in a quiet subdivision in Athens, Georgia, in a house my parents had helped us put the down payment on.

I worked as a senior financial consultant for a regional firm. I was the stable one, the one who clipped coupons, bought generic groceries, and drove a seven-year-old Buick with rust on the doors.

Edward was in commercial real estate. He always had to look successful. He wore tailored shirts, sprayed expensive cologne, and leased a luxury German SUV we couldn’t really afford.

But I trusted him. He was my husband, and I believed we were a team.

Three weeks ago, everything changed.

I had emergency surgery for an ovarian cyst at Piedmont Athens Regional. It wasn’t supposed to be a major deal, but the recovery was brutal. I came home weak, dizzy, and heavily medicated on high-dose painkillers.

Edward was incredibly sweet during those first few days. He brought me tea in my favorite green ceramic mug, the one with the chipped handle I bought at a thrift shop. He adjusted my pillows, kissed my forehead, and laid three pages of fine print in front of me on the bed. He told me they were just simple insurance forms to sign while I recovered.

My head was spinning from the pills. I could barely keep my eyes open, and the text on the page was a complete blur.