Thirty Days To Ruin My Cheating Husband

The coffee was black and bitter. Evia drank it anyway, feeling the acid coat her stomach, using the sensation to anchor herself in the morning.

She sat in the conservatory, surrounded by glass and winter light, her laptop open on the wrought-iron table. The McLaughlin Foundation's administrative portal loaded slowly, deliberately, as if reluctant to show her what she needed to see.

She typed the name. Penelope Vance. The system found her immediately. Eight years of data. Scholarship awards. Living stipends. Progress reports. Photographs showing a girl transforming, the awkward teenager becoming the polished young woman who'd pressed herself against Evia's husband last night.

Evia's cursor hovered over the account status tab. Active. Green. The monthly deposit of five thousand dollars, scheduled for tomorrow.

She clicked.

The termination screen appeared. Red borders. Warning language. This action will immediately freeze all associated accounts and suspend future disbursements. Confirm?

Her finger found the enter key. Pressed.

The status changed. Red. Frozen. The system generated an automatic notification to the recipient's registered address. Penelope would receive an email within the hour. Your funding has been suspended pending audit review.

Evia picked up her coffee. The cup was warm against her palms. She drank, letting the bitterness spread, and felt something that might have been satisfaction.

She exported the records. Eight years of transactions. Clothing allowances. Travel expenses. A semester abroad in Paris. The McLaughlin Foundation had paid for Penelope's transformation from scholarship girl to woman who could attract a billionaire's attention.

The files saved to her encrypted drive. Evidence. Of what, she wasn't certain yet. But evidence.

Her phone rang. Frederic's tone. The one she'd selected three years ago, thinking it romantic.

She answered. Activated the recording app with her thumb, a gesture hidden by the table's edge.

"Evia." His voice was controlled. Tight. "I just received a call from the foundation office. About Penelope Vance."

"Yes?" She kept her voice light. Curious. The concerned administrator.

"Her funding's been cut off. Frozen, apparently. Some nonsense about an audit." A pause. She could hear him breathing, controlled exhalations. "Her mother is ill. Seriously ill. She needs that money for medical expenses. This is-it's cruel, Evia. Unnecessarily punitive."

Evia looked at her laptop screen. At the transaction history. At the line item from six months ago: Paris apartment rental, $4,200. Medical expenses.

"Foundation policy." She let concern color her tone. "The audit flagged irregularities in her expense reporting. It's standard procedure, Frederic. I'm sure it will resolve quickly."

"Irregularities?" His voice rose. A crack in the facade. "What irregularities? She's a student. A child, practically. She doesn't understand-"

"She's twenty-two." Evia's voice didn't change. "And the irregularities are substantial. I'm afraid I can't discuss details. Confidentiality."

Another pause. Longer. She could hear him thinking, calculating, searching for an angle.

"Just-unfreeze the account. Temporarily. I'll vouch for her personally. We can sort out the paperwork later."

"That's not how audits work." Evia stood, carrying the phone to the window, looking out at the garden where frost still clung to the hedges. "There are procedures. Board review. It could take weeks."

"Weeks?" The word came out strangled. "Her mother-"

"Is welcome to apply for emergency medical assistance through our healthcare initiative." Evia recited the policy from memory. "Separate fund. Different application. I can send her the forms."

Silence. Then, softer, dangerous: "You're enjoying this."

"Frederic." She made her voice wounded. Surprised. "I don't understand what you mean. I'm simply doing my job. The foundation's integrity depends on-"

"Your job." The words were clipped. "Your job is to be my wife. To support this family. To show some goddamn compassion for once in your-" He stopped. Controlled himself. When he spoke again, the warmth was back, synthetic, cloying. "I'm sorry. I'm stressed. The London deal. You understand."

"I understand." Evia looked at her reflection in the glass. At the smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I have to go. We'll discuss this tonight."

She ended the call. Saved the recording. Labeled it: Foundation Pressure, 11/14.

Her laptop chimed. An alert from her Zurich contact. She opened the secure channel.

The screen filled with data. Transaction tracking. Account numbers. And there, highlighted in red, a transfer completed seventeen minutes ago.

Two million dollars. From Frederic McLaughlin IV's personal offshore holding. To an account registered to Penelope Vance, SoHo, New York.

Evia stared at the number. She counted the zeros. Two million. Enough for the penthouse. Enough for the necklace. Enough to buy silence, or at least to rent it.

Her fingers moved. Screenshot. Save. Encrypt. The evidence chain grew longer, stronger, more irrefutable.

She sat back. The conservatory was warm, humid, filled with orchids that Frederic's mother had cultivated. Exotic flowers. Delicate. Demanding constant attention.

Evia looked at them and felt nothing.