My husband and I were packing our suitcases for a vacation we had taken out a loan for the day before. I was already closing the bag when a call came from the bank: “We reviewed your loan again and discovered something you need to see in person. Please come alone and don’t tell your husband anything…”

“Do not confront him alone,” she said. “And do not leave your documents in the house. If he’s comfortable forging signatures, he’s comfortable lying when cornered.”

“What about the trip?” I asked, voice tight.

Erica’s mouth turned grim. “A vacation is the perfect distraction for someone hiding fraud. It’s also a perfect opportunity to isolate you—no friends, no coworkers, no bank staff. If he’s planning anything bigger, you don’t want to be out of the country when it surfaces.”

The logic hit like a punch. Cancun wasn’t romance. It was cover.

That evening, I returned home acting normal. Logan was in the kitchen, whistling, flipping through our passports.

“Hey, there you are,” he said, smiling. “Ready to relax?”

“Almost,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “Work emergency. I might need to stop by the office early tomorrow.”

His smile twitched. “Tomorrow? We leave at noon.”

“I know,” I said, keeping my gaze soft. “It shouldn’t take long.”

He studied me for a second too long. “You’re acting weird.”

“Just tired,” I lied.