Megan—the friend I’d treated like a sister—was a leech with a smile. I remembered her fake tears when she claimed she had no money for food, and how I’d handed her an extra credit card. I remembered Daniel’s “overtime” excuses—probably spent in the house I owned, with the woman I sheltered.
Pain hardened into ice.
I opened my banking app. I had full access to everything—including the trading account Daniel “managed,” because I was the true principal owner. My fingers moved fast.
Check his balance.
€30,000 that should have been project funds.
Check transactions.
Transfers to boutiques. Jewelry. A gynecology clinic in Segovia.
“Enjoy your laughter,” I hissed. “While you still can.”
I wasn’t going to confront them in that room. That would be too easy—tears, begging, excuses, cheap theater.
No.
I wanted suffering that matched the betrayal.
I stood, straightened my jacket, and stared down the hallway toward room 305 like it was a target.
“Enjoy your honeymoon in the hospital,” I murmured. “Because tomorrow… your hell begins.”
Outside in my car, I didn’t even start the engine before calling Mark—my trusted head of IT and security.