My husband texted me that he was stuck at work, while kissing his pregnant mistress two tables away from me. I was about to smash a wine glass in his face, until a stranger whispered to me that the worst was just about to begin. My phone vibrated on the crisp white tablecloth. “Happy second anniversary, baby,” his message read. I looked up, and Carter had his hand on the back of another woman’s neck.
…a document with my name written in red.
It didn’t say “lawsuit.” It didn’t say “divorce.” It said: “Deceased Beneficiary.”
I felt the glass slipping from my hand.
“What is this?” Richard asked, his voice cracking.
The woman in the black suit didn’t blink. “An investigation for fraud, identity theft, and attempted life insurance collection.”
The pregnant mistress brought her hands to her belly. “Richard… what does that mean?”
He didn’t look at her. He looked at me. For the first time in months, not with annoyance. With fear.
Julian stood up slowly beside me. “It means your husband wasn’t just cheating on you, Victoria. It means he’s spent weeks planning your death.”
The restaurant ran out of air. Nob Hill, with its elegant window displays and ridiculously expensive restaurants near Union Square, suddenly felt like a cheap theater. People pretended not to look, but everyone was staring.
The woman in the suit approached me. “Mrs. Victoria Sterling, I’m Investigator Sarah Jenkins. I need you to come with us.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No. You’re alive. And that just ruined a lot of your husband’s plans.”
Richard stood up. “This is insane.”
One of the officers took a step forward. “Sit down.”
“I’m a corporate lawyer, I know my rights.”
Sarah turned to another page. “Then you know that forging medical documents, taking out a policy using your wife’s information, and reporting a non-existent death isn’t exactly an administrative mix-up.”
The pregnant woman started to cry. “You told me you were already divorced.”
I let out a laugh. I couldn’t help it. “How funny. He told me he was stuck at work.”
Richard closed his eyes. “Victoria, please.”
“Don’t say my name.”
Sarah placed a copy in front of me. There was my signature. My Social Security Number. My birth certificate. A fake death certificate. And a life insurance policy where Richard was listed as the primary beneficiary.
I felt nauseous. “How much was my death worth?”
No one answered. Except Julian.
“Five million dollars.”
