Chapter 2 - The Setup
When I let myself back into the house at 1:00 AM, the master bedroom was dark and quiet. The rhythmic sound of Malcolm’s breathing echoed softly from down the hall. He had returned from his "gala" hours ago, sleeping the sleep of a man who believed his deceptions were entirely airtight.
I didn't go to the bedroom. Instead, I walked down the dim hallway to Malcolm’s private study.
The door was unlocked—a careless oversight born of absolute arrogance. I switched on the desk lamp, its amber shade casting a warm glow over the mahogany surfaces. For the next two hours, I systematically dismantled his facade.
I opened his leather briefcase, pulled out his locked laptop (which I unlocked using a biometric override I had quietly saved months ago), and began copying files to an encrypted flash drive. I found hotel reservations for boutique resorts in Aspen and Santa Fe booked under an alias, high-end jewelry receipts for pieces that had never made their way into my closet, and suspicious financial transfers moving corporate capital into offshore accounts.
And then, tucked into the side pocket of his overnight travel kit, I found it: a small, unmarked personal jar with a screw-top lid, smelling faintly of a high-end cosmetic balm he used for his sensitive skin during travel. It was a product he guarded jealously, always packing it himself before every single overnight trip, joking that his skin couldn't survive hotel toiletries.
I stared at the jar for a long, quiet moment. A slow, cold resolve settled over my chest.
I walked down to the basement utility room, where my father’s old workshop still sat untouched. Rummaging through the heavy-duty storage shelves, I found what I was looking for: a commercial tube of industrial-strength anaerobic structural adhesive, the kind used to bond heavy metal and rubber components in heavy machinery. It set within minutes upon skin-to-skin contact under body heat, creating a permanent, unbreakable chemical weld.
Carrying the tube and the small jar back to the study, I carefully emptied the contents of Malcolm’s cosmetic container into the trash, washed it out thoroughly, and dried it with a paper towel. Then, I filled it to the brim with the thick, clear industrial adhesive, screwing the cap back on with precise care so it looked entirely undisturbed. I placed the jar right back into the side pocket of his overnight bag.
I wasn’t proud of it. A small, rational voice in the back of my mind whispered that I was descending to their level. But the louder voice—the voice of the woman who had spent five years being gaslit and manipulated—replied that monsters did not deserve polite resistance. They deserved to be exposed by the very chaos they created.
I went to guest bedroom down the hall, lay down on top of the blankets fully clothed, and closed my eyes.
At 2:07 AM, my phone rang.
The screen lit up with the flashing name of a local metropolitan hospital. I sat up immediately, my heart hammering a rhythmic, controlled beat, and slid my thumb across the screen.
“Mrs. Hayes?” a frantic, deeply embarrassed voice asked on the other end.
“Speaking,” I replied, my voice chillingly calm.
“Ah… Mrs. Hayes, I’m calling from St. Jude’s Emergency Department. We have your husband, Malcolm Hayes, here in our care. Uh, there’s been a rather unusual medical emergency. We’re having some… difficulty separating him and another patient.”
A pause hung heavily in the air as the nurse searched for professional vocabulary that simply did not exist for this scenario.
“I see,” I said smoothly. “Is he conscious?”
May you like
“He is, yes. But he’s currently incapacitated, and frankly, quite distressed. We need a legal signature for procedural intervention, and frankly, someone to bring some clothes or manage the situation. Can you come down?”
“Tell the attending physician to prepare the charts,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “I’m on my way.”
