He just takes another sip of his scotch, completely casual, like he’s reminding me to pick up his dry cleaning instead of demanding I host his ex-girlfriend at our Christmas dinner. I’m standing in our Lincoln Park apartment holding a dish towel, my hands still wet from washing the dinner plates he barely touched. For a moment I can’t move.
Can’t breathe. The words hang in the air between us like poison. «Behave yourself.
For once.» Before we continue, please subscribe to support stories of women reclaiming their power. Your subscription is free and helps us reach others who need to hear this.
Now let’s see what happens next. As if I’m the problem. As if I’m some unruly child who needs constant correction instead of his wife of four years who’s done nothing but shrink herself to fit his expectations.
«Of course, honey,» I hear myself say, voice perfectly pleasant. «Whatever you want.» He finally glances up, gives me that satisfied little smirk that used to make my heart flutter.
Now it makes my stomach turn. Because what Hudson doesn’t know, what he can’t possibly know, is that I’ve already seen his phone. I know exactly why Willow is really coming to Christmas dinner.
And I’ve invited someone too. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up to show you exactly how I became this woman.
The one standing in a designer kitchen swallowing humiliation with a smile, planning revenge behind perfect manners. Four years ago, I thought I’d won the lottery when Hudson Whitmore proposed. We met at a corporate fundraiser where I was coordinating the event.
Making sure the ice sculptures didn’t melt, the champagne kept flowing, the silent auction ran smoothly. He was there representing Morrison & Blake, the investment firm where he worked as an analyst. Handsome in his tailored suit, confident in that way that comes from old money and Ivy League degrees.
Charming when he wanted to be. He pursued me with the same focused intensity he applied to his stock portfolios. Flowers delivered to my office.
Reservations at restaurants I couldn’t afford. Weekend trips to his family’s lake house in Wisconsin. He made me feel special, chosen like I was the only woman in Chicago who mattered.
Six months later he proposed. A year after that, we were married in a ceremony his mother planned down to the last detail. In a venue his parents paid for, with a guest list that included more of his colleagues than my friends.
I should have noticed the pattern then, but I was young, 26 to his 31, and I mistook his control for care, his possessiveness for devotion. The changes started small. Subtle suggestions that became firm opinions that became unspoken rules.
«That dress is a bit much for a work dinner, don’t you think? Maybe something more conservative. Your friends are nice, but they’re not really our crowd.»
«Why don’t we focus on building relationships that benefit both our careers? Event planning is fine for single women, but now that you’re my wife you don’t need to work. We don’t need the money and honestly, Bella, planning birthday parties isn’t exactly a real career.»
That last one came 8 months into our marriage. I’d been promoted to Senior Coordinator at the boutique firm where I’d worked for 3 years. I loved my job.
The creativity, the problem solving, the satisfaction of pulling off a perfect event. But Hudson framed quitting as an upgrade, a privilege. «Stay home,» he said.
«Take care of the apartment. Be my wife. Isn’t that what you want?»
I wanted to be a good wife. I wanted him to be proud of me. So I quit.
Now 3 years later I spend my days in this beautiful apartment that feels more like a showroom than a home. Everything is in shades of grey and cream. Sophisticated, mature, expensive.
Hudson’s taste, not mine. I would have chosen color. Warm terracottas, deep blues, anything with life in it.
But Hudson said jewel tones were dated and suburban. So we went with his aesthetic. I fill my time decorating, reorganizing, hosting dinners for Hudson’s colleagues and their wives.
The wives are always polite, always friendly, but there’s a distance there. They talk about their careers. Law, medicine, finance.
And then they turn to me and ask what I do and I have to say, «I’m a homemaker,» while watching something shift in their expressions. Pity maybe. Or judgment.
I can never quite tell. Hudson comes home late most nights now. Working late, he says, though he never explains what deals require his attention until 9 or 10 p.m.
I’ve learned not to ask. The one time I questioned whether he really needed to be at the office so much he got that edge in his voice. The one that isn’t quite anger but feels like a warning.
«Bella I’m building our future. Do you think this lifestyle pays for itself? The apartment, the car, your credit card?»
«Someone has to do the actual work.» So I stopped asking. Instead I became the perfect wife.
I learned to have dinner ready whenever he walked through the door. Learned to keep the apartment magazine perfect. Learned to dress the way he preferred.
Learned to smile and nod during his work dinners while his colleagues’ wives discussed cases and surgeries and market trends. I learned to make myself smaller. Tonight was supposed to be different.
It’s October 20th. Not an anniversary or birthday but I’d wanted to do something nice. I spent all afternoon preparing Hudson’s favorite meal.
Pan-seared salmon with a lemon butter sauce. Roasted asparagus with parmesan. Wild rice pilaf made from scratch.
I set the table with our wedding china. The set his parents gave us, white with gold trim. I lit candles.
Opened a bottle of wine. Wore the navy dress. Hudson walked through the door at 9.14, barely glanced at the table and headed straight for the bar cart.
And then he told me about Willow. Willow Brennan. The ex-girlfriend from college.
The one he dated for two years before we met. I knew about her. Hudson mentioned her occasionally, always in this nostalgic tone that made it clear she occupied a different tier in his mind than I did.
«Willow thinks the tech sector is overvalued. Willow recommended this restaurant. Willow always understood complex financial instruments in a way most people don’t.»
I’d felt twinges of jealousy over the years, but I’d pushed them down. She was in Boston working at some high-powered law firm making partner living a life completely separate from ours. She was the past.
I was the present. Except now she’s moving back to Chicago. And Hudson wants her at our Christmas dinner.
«She’s important to me, Bella.» He’d said like that explained everything. «We’re still close friends.
She’ll be alone for the holidays and I think it would be nice to include her.» I’d suggested inviting my sister Claire instead. She’d been asking to visit and her kids would love the city at Christmas.
But Hudson dismissed that immediately. «Your sister talks too much. Besides, this isn’t about her.»
«Willow is moving back to town. She’s going to be part of our social circle and I need you to be mature about this.» Then came the line that’s still echoing in my head.
«Try not to make it awkward. Behave yourself for once.» For once.
As if I’m constantly misbehaving. As if I’m always embarrassing him. Always failing to meet some standard he hasn’t bothered to explain.
I’d smiled and agreed because that’s what I do now. That’s who I’ve become. Except two nights ago I stopped being that woman.
Two nights ago I couldn’t sleep. Hudson was snoring beside me. One arm flung across my side of the bed and his phone kept lighting up on the nightstand with notifications.
Usually I ignore it. Work emails, market alerts, nothing that concerns me. But that night something made me look.
The screen was unlocked. An incoming text from W was visible in the preview. «Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
Miss you so much.» My heart started pounding. I picked up the phone with shaking hands and opened the message thread.
What I found destroyed me. Months of messages. Hundreds of them.
Hudson and Willow had been in constant contact the entire time she was in Boston. They’d been meeting up during his business trips. Trips I’d helped him pack for, kissed him goodbye for, welcomed him home from without a shred of suspicion.
The messages weren’t just friendly catch-ups between exes. They were intimate, explicit, full of longing and inside jokes and references to a shared future. «Willow, I miss you.
Can’t wait to be in the same city again.» «Hudson, me too. It’s been torture being apart.
Just a few more weeks.» «Willow, does she suspect anything?» «Hudson, god no. Belle is too focused on throw pillows and dinner parties to notice anything.
She’s harmless.» Harmless. That word kept appearing.
Over and over Hudson described me as harmless. Simple. Easy to manage.
Easy to control. «Willow, you always said she was… Simple.» «Hudson she is.
That’s why I married her. Easy to manage. Easy to control.
Not like you, you’ve always been on my level.» I’d sat there in the dark, reading message after message, watching my marriage dissolve into something ugly and calculated. Hudson hadn’t married me because he loved me.
He’d married me because I was manageable. Because I wouldn’t challenge him or compete with him or demand too much. I was the safe choice.
The easy choice. The simple choice. But it was the most recent messages, from just three days ago, that changed everything.
«Hudson, I’m telling her about Christmas tomorrow. Setting the stage.» «Willow, think she’ll take the hint?» «Hudson, eventually.
I need her to initiate the divorce. Cleaner that way. My attorney says if she files first I look like the victim.
Plus, the prenup kicks in, she signed it without even reading it. He gets almost nothing.» «Willow, you’re terrible.
Hudson, I’m practical. And by New Year’s she’ll be gone and we can stop hiding.» I’d set the phone down exactly where I found it, my hands perfectly steady.
The hurt I’d felt moments before had crystallized into something else. Something colder. Something dangerous.
Hudson wanted me to initiate the divorce so he could play the victim and keep all our assets thanks to a prenup I’d signed in a haze of love and trust four years ago. He wanted to humiliate me by forcing me to serve Christmas dinner to his mistress. He wanted me to behave myself, while he dismantled our marriage on his terms.
He thought I was too simple to notice. Too harmless to fight back. He was wrong.
The next morning I’d made him his favorite breakfast, Eggs Benedict with fresh hollandaise, and smiled when he barely looked up from his tablet. I’d asked about his day and laughed at his dismissive responses. I’d played the role perfectly, because I’d already decided, if Hudson wants to play games I’m going to change all the rules.
That afternoon while he was at work, I’d dug out our prenuptial agreement from the safe in his office. I’d signed it without reading it four years ago, too in love and too trusting to think I’d ever need to know what it said. Now I read every word.
The terms were brutal. If I filed for divorce within five years of marriage, I’d receive $50,000 and nothing else. No claim to the apartment, even though the down payment came from my inheritance from my grandmother.
No alimony. No share of his retirement accounts or investment portfolio. I’d be left with almost nothing.
But on page 17, buried in dense legal language, I found something Hudson’s attorney probably hoped I’d never notice. An adultery clause. In the event of proven adultery by Hudson Whitmore, all prenuptial conditions are void, and marital assets shall be divided according to Illinois state law.
Proven adultery. I’d taken photos of every page of that prenup and emailed them to myself using a secret account I’d created. Then I’d put the document back exactly as I’d found it.
Hudson thinks I’m simple. He thinks I’m harmless. He’s about to find out how wrong he is.
Now standing here with a dish towel in my hands while Hudson scrolls through his phone, completely oblivious to the fact that I know everything, I feel something I haven’t felt in years. Power. He wants Willow at Christmas dinner? Fine.
She’ll be here. But so will some other guests Hudson isn’t expecting. And by the time dessert is served, everyone in this apartment is going to understand exactly what kind of man Hudson Whitmore really is.
And exactly what kind of woman I’ve become. The morning after Hudson’s announcement about Christmas dinner, I wake up with a clarity I haven’t felt in years. He’s already gone, left early for a breakfast meeting downtown, or so the note on the kitchen counter claims.
I don’t believe him anymore. Every word out of his mouth feels like a potential lie now. Every explanation suspect.
I make coffee and sit at the kitchen island with my laptop, staring at the screen while steam rises from my cup. I need help. Professional help.
The kind of help that can turn my suspicions into evidence that will hold up in court. I’d spent most of last night, after Hudson finally went to bed, searching online forums. Support groups for women leaving marriages.
Legal advice threads about prenuptial agreements and Illinois divorce law. Resources I never imagined I’d need. That’s where I found the recommendation.
Carmen Delgado, private investigator, former Chicago PD detective, specializes in infidelity cases. Three different women in the forum had used her services, and all three had nothing but praise. «She believed me when no one else did,» one woman wrote.
«She got me the evidence I needed to protect myself.» I send Carmen an email before I can talk myself out of it. Brief to the point.
«I need to document my husband’s affair. Can we meet?» Her response comes within an hour. «Wicker Park Cafe, 2 p.m. today.
I’ll be at the back table wearing a blue jacket.» I spend the rest of the morning in a strange liminal space, going through the motions of my normal routine while my mind races ahead to the afternoon meeting. I make the bed with hospital corners the way Hudson prefers.
I wipe down the already clean counters. I respond to a text from Claire asking if we’re still on for our monthly lunch next week. «Absolutely,» I type back.
«Can’t wait to see you.» I don’t tell her what’s happening. Not yet.
Claire has never liked Hudson. She thinks I changed after we got married, became quieter, less like myself. She’s told me a dozen times I could do better.
But I’m not ready to hear I told you so, even if she’s too kind to actually say it. At 1.30, I change into jeans and a sweater. Nothing that screams, meeting with a private investigator to document my husband’s infidelity.
And head out. Wicker Park is busy with the lunch crowd dispersing, young professionals and artists and students filling the sidewalks. The cafe is tucked into a corner building with big windows and mismatched furniture that’s trying hard to look vintage.
I spot Carmen immediately. A woman in her fifties with dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, sharp eyes that assess me the moment I walk through the door, wearing the promised blue jacket. She stands and extends her hand.
«Bella.» «Yes. Thank you for meeting me.»
«Have a seat.» She gestures to the chair across from her, where a laptop and a leather portfolio already sit on the table. There’s a coffee in front of her, half-finished.
«Want anything? My treat.» «I’m fine, thank you.» She studies me for a moment, and I have the distinct feeling she’s cataloging everything about me.
The way I’m sitting, the tension in my shoulders, the fact that I’m not wearing my wedding ring. I’d taken it off this morning without really thinking about it, left it on the bathroom counter next to Hudson’s cologne. «So,» Carmen says, her voice low and professional.
«Tell me what’s going on.» I’d rehearsed this conversation in my head during the drive over, but now that I’m here, the words stick in my throat. Saying it out loud makes it real in a way it hasn’t been yet.
«My husband is having an affair with his ex-girlfriend,» I finally say. «They’ve been involved for at least a year, maybe longer. She’s moving back to Chicago, and he’s invited her to our Christmas dinner.
He told me to behave myself.» Carmen’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in her eyes. Recognition, maybe.
She’s heard stories like this before. «How do you know about the affair?» she asks. «I found messages on his phone.
Hundreds of them. They’ve been planning a future together. He wants me to file for divorce so he looks like the victim, and there’s a prenup that would leave me with almost nothing if I do.
But there’s an adultery clause,» Carmen says. It’s not a question. «On page 17.
If I can prove he cheated, the prenup is void.» «And you need proof. Documented, undeniable proof.»
Carmen nods slowly, opens her laptop. «I’ve been doing this for 15 years. Before that, I was with Chicago PD for 20.
I’ve seen every version of this story and I’m going to tell you something right now. Once you go down this road, there’s no going back. Once you see the evidence, the photos, the surveillance footage, all of it, you can’t unsee it.
Even if you already know, seeing it is different. Are you sure you want to do this?» I think about Hudson’s smirk last night. The casual way he told me to behave myself.
The messages where he called me simple, harmless, easy to manage. «I already know,» I say. «I just need the evidence.»
Carmen’s expression softens slightly. Not quite a smile, but close. «Then let’s get started.»
She pulls up a standard contract on her laptop and walks me through the terms. Her rates are reasonable. More reasonable than I expected, actually.
She explains what she’ll do. Physical surveillance. Digital forensics, if needed.
Documentation of meetings and communications. She asks for details. Hudson’s work schedule.
His regular haunts. Whether he has any security measures on his devices. I tell her everything.
About Morrison and Blake. About his late nights. About Willow Brennan and the upcoming Christmas dinner.
I give her Hudson’s phone number, his car’s make and model, his office address. Carmen takes notes in a small leather-bound notebook. Her handwriting’s surprisingly neat for someone who spent two decades as a cop.
«One more thing,» she says when I’m finished. «Does your husband have any idea you suspect anything?» «No. I’ve been playing the perfect wife.
He thinks I’m too focused on decorating and hosting to notice.» «Good. Keep it that way.
The moment he suspects you’re building a case, he’ll get careful. Right now, he’s sloppy because he’s confident. We want him to stay that way.»
I nod, feeling a strange mix of relief and dread. This is happening. I’m actually doing this.
«I’ll start tomorrow,» Carmen says. «I’ll send you updates every few days. Encrypted emails to whatever account you want me to use.
Nothing traceable to your regular email or phone.» I give her the address of the secret account I’d created. «Smart,» she says approvingly.
«You’d be surprised how many people don’t think of that.» We shake hands and I leave the cafe feeling lighter than I have in days. I’m not alone anymore.
I have an ally, someone who believes me, someone who’s going to help me fight back. The next two weeks pass in a surreal blur. I maintain my routine perfectly.
The dutiful wife, the gracious hostess, the woman who smiles and asks how Hudson’s day was even though I know exactly how his day was. Carmen sends me updates every three days. The first email contains photos of Hudson and Willow meeting at the Four Seasons Hotel downtown.
They’re sitting close together in the lobby bar, his hand on her knee. The timestamp shows 2.15 p.m. on a Thursday, right in the middle of what Hudson had told me was a client lunch. The second email has video footage.
Carmen managed to follow them to a parking garage on Randolph Street, where they kissed like teenagers against Hudson’s car before he drove away and she got into her own vehicle. It’s grainy but clear enough. Undeniable.
The third email contains financial records. Carmen has a contact who was able to pull Hudson’s personal credit card statements. The Amex I’m not authorized to use.
The charges tell a story. Jewelry from Tiffany, dinners at expensive restaurants I’ve never been to, a weekend stay at a resort in Lake Geneva that happened during a time Hudson claimed he was at a conference in Milwaukee. I look at the receipts and feel nothing.
The hurt has been burned away, replaced by cold calculation. This is ammunition. This is leverage.
This is power. But Carmen’s fourth email is what changes everything. «Call me it says.
Found something you need to know about.» I wait until Hudson leaves for work, then dial her number. «Willow Brennan works at Morrison & Blake.»
Carmen says without preamble. «Same firm as your husband. She started three months ago.»
My stomach drops. «They’re colleagues.» «More than that.
He’s up for partner. And Bella there’s something else.» Carmen pauses.
«I’ve been following her too just to get a fuller picture. She’s seeing someone else besides your husband.» «What?» «Richard Morrison.
Founding partner at Morrison & Blake. Married three kids. I’ve got photos of them together at Alinea last week at the Peninsula Hotel two weeks before that.
She’s playing them both.» I sink into a chair my mind racing. Willow isn’t just Hudson’s mistress.
She’s juggling multiple affairs. Using both men to advance her career. «I did some digging into her phone records.»
Carmen continues. «Her security is weak. Uses the same password for everything.
Doesn’t have two-factor authentication. I managed to pull some text messages between her and Morrison. Want me to send them to you?» «Yes.»
The texts arrive ten minutes later and they’re damning. Willow calls Hudson desperate and clingy. She tells Richard that Hudson is a convenient distraction.
While she waits for Richard to leave his wife. She’s playing them against each other and neither man has any idea. I sit there staring at the messages and something clicks into place in my mind.
A plan. Not just exposing Hudson’s affair but exposing everything. All of Willow’s lies.
All of her manipulation. Bringing everyone together in one room and watching her carefully constructed house of cards collapse. I call Carmen back.
«How would you feel about helping me with something unconventional?» There’s a pause then a low chuckle. «Honey, I live for unconventional. What did you have in mind?» «I need to contact Richard Morrison.
Anonymously. I need to tell him what his girlfriend is really doing.» «You want to invite him to this Christmas dinner of yours.»
«Exactly. Along with his wife. She deserves to know too.»
«That’s bold,» Carmen says. «Also potentially brilliant. You’d need ironclad evidence though.
He won’t believe you without proof.» «Can you get me screenshots of those texts? Anything else you’ve found.» «I can do better than that.
I’ll compile a full dossier. Photos, receipts, timeline of their affair. Everything.
You send it to Morrison, let him verify it himself. And then you invite him to witness the whole thing firsthand.» «Can you help me write the email? Make sure it’s untraceable.»
«Absolutely. Let’s set up another meeting. This is going to take some planning.»
After we hang up, I walk to the window and look out at Lincoln Park below. Families are walking dogs, couples are jogging. The city is going about its business completely unaware that my life is about to implode and rebuild itself into something new.
Hudson thinks I’m harmless. He thinks Christmas dinner will be the beginning of the end of our marriage. With me quietly retreating and filing for divorce like the obedient wife I’ve been trained to be.
He’s wrong. Christmas dinner is going to be the end, all right. But not the ending he’s expecting.
I meet Carmen again three days later at a different location. A quiet library in Logan Square where we can work without being overheard. She’s already there when I arrive.
Sitting at a corner table with her laptop open and a stack of printed documents beside her. «I’ve got everything organized,» she says quietly as I sit down. «Photos, credit card statements, phone records, timeline of meetings.
It’s airtight.» She slides a folder across the table. I open it and see my marriage documented in brutal detail.
Hudson and Willow at hotels, restaurants, in his car. Dates and time stamps on every image. Financial records showing exactly how much he spent on her while telling me we need to be careful with money.
«This is for Morrison,» Carmen says tapping another folder. «Similar evidence but focused on his relationship with Willow.» I pull text messages she sent to him.
The ones where she talks about Hudson being a distraction, where she calls your husband desperate and clingy. I stare at the evidence and feel that cold determination solidify further. This is real.
This is happening. «Now we need to figure out how to contact Richard Morrison,» Carmen says. «You can’t use your regular email.
He’ll trace it back to you and the whole plan falls apart.» «I know. That’s why I set up a ProtonMail account.»
I pull out my phone and show her. «Completely anonymous. Can’t be traced.»
Carmen looks impressed. «You’ve been doing your homework.» «I’ve had a lot of sleepless nights.»
We spend the next hour crafting the email together. Carmen’s experience as a detective shows. She knows exactly how to word things to be convincing without being threatening.
How to present information that will make Morrison take it seriously. The final version reads. «Mr. Morrison, you don’t know me, but I know you.
More importantly, I know Willow Brennan, the attorney at your firm, who’s currently up for partner. I’m writing because I believe you deserve to know the truth about the woman you’ve been seeing. Willow is currently in a relationship with another man at your firm.
Hudson Whitmore, a senior investment analyst. They’ve been carrying on an affair for over a year. And she’s planning to spend Christmas with him and his wife.
I have evidence. Photos, messages, hotel receipts. If you’d like proof of what I’m telling you, respond to this email.
You seem like a successful man with a lot to lose. Willow Brennan is playing both of you and I thought you should know before she does any more damage. Concerned friend.»
«It’s good,» Carmen says, reading it over my shoulder. «Not too emotional, not accusatory. Just facts.
He’ll respond.» «How can you be sure?» «Because men like Richard Morrison can’t resist a mystery. And because his ego won’t let him ignore the possibility that he’s being played.»
She closes her laptop. «When do you want to send it?» I think about Hudson’s announcement about Willow confirming she’ll be at Christmas dinner. «Tonight.
After Hudson goes to bed.» Carmen nods. «Once you send this, there’s no taking it back.
You’re committing to this plan.» «I know.» That evening, Hudson comes home around 8. Earlier than usual.
He’s in a good mood, whistling as he hangs up his coat. It takes everything in me not to react, not to let my mask slip. «Good day.»
I ask, stirring the pasta sauce I’ve been making. «Great day. Close to big deal.
Morrison was impressed.» He comes up behind me, kisses the top of my head. A gesture that would have made me happy a month ago.
Now it makes my skin crawl. «Is that carbonara?» «Your favorite.» «You’re the best, Bella.»
He pours himself wine, actually pours me a glass too. «I was thinking, we should go shopping this weekend for Christmas. Get something nice for Willow.
What do you think, maybe a scarf? Something tasteful.» I grip the wooden spoon tighter. He wants me to help him buy a gift for his mistress.
«That sounds lovely,» I hear myself say. «A cashmere scarf, maybe. Very elegant.»
«Perfect. See, this is why I knew you’d be mature about her coming to dinner. You’re always so gracious.»
We eat dinner and Hudson actually talks to me about work, about the deal he closed, about his plans for next year. It’s almost like old times except now I know it’s all performance. He’s buttering me up, making sure I stay compliant, making sure I don’t object to Willow’s presence at Christmas.
I smile and nod and ask the right questions and inside I’m counting the hours until he falls asleep. At 11.30 he finally heads to bed. I wait another 30 minutes, listening to his breathing even out into the familiar pattern of sleep.
Then I take my laptop to the bathroom, close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. My hands are shaking as I open the ProtonMail account and paste in the email Carmen and I wrote. I attach a selection of the evidence, enough to be convincing not so much that it’s overwhelming.
My finger hovers over the send button. This is it. The point of no return.
Once I send this email I’m setting events in motion that I can’t control. Richard Morrison could ignore it, could tell Willow, could do any number of things that would ruin my plan. But I think of Hudson’s smirk.
His casual cruelty. The way he told me to behave myself as if I’m a child who needs discipline. I think of the text where he called me simple, harmless, easy to manage.
I click send. The email whooshes away into the digital void and I sit there staring at the screen, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I close the laptop and go back to bed, sliding carefully under the cover so I don’t wake Hudson.
He doesn’t stir, doesn’t even shift in his sleep. I lie there in the dark, wide awake, wondering if I’ve just made a terrible mistake. The next morning I check the anonymous email account the moment Hudson leaves for work.
Nothing. I check again an hour later. Still nothing.
By noon I’m convinced Richard Morrison has deleted the email without reading it. Or decided it’s some kind of scam. Or simply doesn’t care.
Then at 1.30pm my laptop chimes with a new message. «Who is this? How did you get this information?» My hands shake as I open it. The email is brief, aggressive.
Exactly what I’d expect from a powerful man who’s just been told uncomfortable truths. I’d prepared a response for this with Carmen. I attach more evidence.
Screenshots of texts between Hudson and Willow. The hotel receipts. Several of Carmen’s surveillance photos.
I keep my message short. «Everything I told you is true. Check the evidence.
If you want more proof I can provide it.» I send it before I can second guess myself. An hour passes.
Then another. I try to distract myself with cleaning, with cooking, with anything that will keep my hands busy. But my mind keeps circling back to that email.
Wondering what Richard Morrison is doing with the information I’ve given him. At 4pm another message appears. «I confronted her.
She denied everything. Said you’re lying. Said you’re some crazy ex-girlfriend of mine trying to cause trouble.
Who are you?» I expected this. Willow is smart, manipulative. Of course she’d deny it.
This is the critical moment. The point where I have to reveal my identity. I take a deep breath and type.
«I’m not your ex-girlfriend. I’m Hudson Whitmore’s wife. My name is Bella.
We’ve been married for 4 years and we live together in Lincoln Park. Everything I’ve told you is true. Willow has been playing both of you.
My husband has invited Willow to our Christmas dinner. He told me to behave myself. He thinks I don’t know about the affair.
He thinks I’m too simple to notice. But I know everything. Here’s what I’m proposing.
You and I give them exactly what they want. A nice Christmas dinner. All of us together.
Let’s see how well Willow handles being exposed in front of everyone. If you’re interested in making sure the truth comes out, respond to this email.» I send it and immediately feel sick.
I’ve just revealed my identity to a stranger. Trusted him with information that could destroy my entire plan if he decides to warn Hudson or Willow. I close the laptop and pace the apartment unable to sit still.
One day passes. Then three. By November 13th I’m convinced I’ve miscalculated.
Richard Morrison isn’t going to respond. He’s probably warning Willow right now and she’s telling Hudson. And my entire carefully constructed plan is falling apart before it even begins.
I’m in the kitchen making lunch when my laptop chimes. I nearly drop the knife I’m holding. I walk slowly to the computer and open the email.
«I’m in. What do you need from me?» I have to read it three times before I believe it’s real. Richard Morrison, founding partner at Morrison & Blake, powerful, successful, used to being in control, has agreed to help me expose his mistress and my husband.
I sit down heavily in a chair, suddenly aware that my legs are shaking. Carmen was right. Men like Richard Morrison can’t resist the opportunity to regain control when they’ve been manipulated.
His ego won’t allow him to let Willow get away with playing him. I type back quickly. «Come to my apartment on Christmas Day at 6.30pm. I’ll text you when to arrive.
Bring your wife, she deserves to know the truth too. And bring any evidence you’ve collected from work.» His response comes within minutes.
«Catherine will be there. And I’ve been collecting emails and security footage for the past three days. Willow’s been sloppy at the office.
She won’t have a career left when this is over.» I close the laptop and sit there in my kitchen, surrounded by the trappings of my carefully curated life, and feel something shift inside me. I’m not alone anymore.
I have allies. I have a plan. And in six weeks, Hudson and Willow are going to understand exactly what happens when you underestimate the simple, harmless wife.
Over the next six weeks, Richard Morrison and I exchange dozens of encrypted emails, coordinating every detail of what will happen on Christmas Day. The correspondence is businesslike, clinical almost. Two people who’ve been wronged working together to ensure their betrayers face consequences.
Richard sends me evidence he’s been collecting at work. Security footage of Willow entering his office after hours. Time stamped at 11pm on a Tuesday when the building should have been empty.
Email exchanges where she discusses strategy sessions that clearly have nothing to do with legal work. He’s building a case to have her dismissed from Morrison & Blake. And he’s doing it with the same ruthless efficiency that made him a founding partner.
