Part 4 — My Husband Threw Me Out of the House in Front of His Mistress, but After One Call from My Father, the Victorious Smile Disappeared from His Face

The clinic administrator’s call ended at two o’clock at night, but her last words revolved in my head until morning.

“Someone entered your room.”

My father carefully took the phone from my hand.

“We are going together in the morning.”

“No,” I answered. “This time I must hear everything.”

“I will not let you go alone.”

“I know.”

That same night the police took Spencer and Paisley away for questioning. They no longer looked at each other. Their common plan lay in the middle of the room like shattered glass.

Spencer stopped at the door.

“Phoebe, I need to speak with you about the lawyer.”

“I have already spoken with my lawyer.”

“It should not end this way.”

“You chose yourself how it would end.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

He pronounced the words so calmly that I almost laughed.

“From whom?”

He could not find an answer.

At nine o’clock in the morning we were sitting in the clinic’s small archive. The room smelled of old paper and disinfectant. Lea Morgan locked the door and placed a dark brown folder on the table.

“This record could not be uploaded into the digital system three years ago,” she explained. “We found it today while arranging the old storage.”

“Who entered my room?” I asked.

Lea adjusted her glasses.

“Your husband.”

My father lowered his eyes.

“That is impossible. Spencer was outside the city that day.”

“That is what was written in the visitors’ log,” Lea said. “But the camera recording shows something else.”

She turned on a small screen.

Spencer appeared in the corridor. He was holding a black bag. He entered my room for seven minutes and then went to the nurse’s desk.

There was no sound on the video, but his movements were enough. He took a wallet from my bag, then took a small plastic card from the bag and put it in his pocket.

“What is that?” I asked.

Lea took a paper from the folder.

“A copy of your identity card and a sample of your signature. That same day he requested a patient authorization form in your name.”},{

“Why?”

Lea lowered her voice.

“So that he would have the right to access your medical documents. At the time we thought it was an ordinary husband’s request.”

I gripped the edge of the table. My skin turned white.

My father said quietly:

“He started everything that day.”

“No,” I answered. “He planned everything that day. He had started much earlier.”

As soon as we left the clinic, Spencer’s lawyer called me.

“Mrs. Harell, my client is ready for an agreement.”

“What are you offering?”

“To end the marriage peacefully. You will receive the house and a certain amount of money if you destroy the audit materials.”

“Does your client still think he has a choice?”

“You too will suffer if the case reaches court.”

“I have already suffered. Now I simply do not want to hide the truth anymore.”

I ended the call.

That same evening Spencer sent information to the media claiming that I had tried to embezzle his company’s money. The next morning my photograph appeared in several newspapers. But David handed all the documents to publishers and investigators.

It took three days for people to see two different stories.

The first—the one written by Spencer.

The second—proven by bank statements, the clinic record, the forged signature, and his own voice.

On the fourth day Spencer himself asked to meet me.

He was sitting behind the glass of the detention room. On the table attached to the wall he was nervously tapping his fingers.

“Phoebe, I want you back.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Which home? The one you threw me out of, or the one you built with my share?”

He lowered his head.

“I made a mistake.”

“No. You made a decision every day.”

“Paisley ruined everything.”

“You chose her.”

“You also chose me when you decided to return to your father.”

“I chose to remain with you while you were preparing documents against me.”

His eyes lit up.

“You cannot simply leave me like this.”

“I can.”

For the first time, he fell silent precisely at this word.

Soon the court officially began an investigation against Spencer. Paisley admitted that she had participated in part of the scheme in exchange for a monetary promise. The money stolen from the company was to be returned, his share was frozen, and the fictitious accounts were closed.

I did not sit beside Spencer in the courtroom.

I stood in the witness stand.

When the lawyer asked me why I had not checked his finances earlier, a quiet rustle passed through the room.

“Because I trusted my husband,” I answered. “Trust is not a crime.”

Spencer raised his head.

Beside him on the table lay my small metal clasp. They had taken it from Paisley’s bag and added it as evidence. The thing that had torn from my dress that night now lay among the proofs of his lie.

Several weeks later I returned to the villa only to collect my things.

The bedroom was almost empty. None of my clothes remained in the wardrobe, but I found the old red velvet box on the floor in front of the mirror. My father’s card was no longer inside. In its place they had left my wedding photograph.

In the photograph I was laughing.

So sincerely that I could barely recognize myself.

I did not take the photograph.

In the kitchen the cleaner, Mrs. Elene, quietly asked me:

“Are you really leaving, Mrs. Phoebe?”

“Yes.”

“And the house?”

“Let the walls remain. I will not stay there anymore.”

Three months later I moved to a small seaside town. My father offered me work in the legal assistance department of his company, but at first I refused. I wanted to find my own path.

Eventually I started working in a small architectural studio. In the morning I opened the window, made coffee, and arranged white sheets of paper on my desk. No one told me what I should wear. No one counted how long I stood in front of the mirror.

The first winter, snow came.

My little niece, Nino, drew a house in the snow. The house had large windows, and a little woman stood by the door.

“Is this you?” I asked.

“No,” she told me. “This is the house you built yourself.”

I attached the picture to the refrigerator.

That same week I received a letter from Spencer. It was short.

“I understood everything. If you are ever ready, let us start again.”

I held the letter in my hand for a long time.

Then I asked my father:

“What would you do?”

“Whatever peace tells you,” he answered.

I wrote Spencer only one sentence.

“My life does not begin again with you. It continued without you.”

No answer came.

Time passed.

The case connected with him ended. The company recovered its losses. Paisley decided to move to another city. Spencer lost everything he had built at the expense of my trust.

And I regained ordinary mornings.

On Sundays I went to the park with Nino. In the studio I drew sketches of new projects. In the evenings I sat by the window and listened to the sound of the sea.

One day I opened an old bag and found there the small metal clasp that they had given back to me after the case ended.

I placed it on my palm.

It was no longer cold.

Probably because this time I was no longer standing at the door of that house, no longer waiting for someone’s permission, and no longer trying to prove that I was worthy of love.

I hung the clasp beside the refrigerator, next to Nino’s drawing.

The small silver-colored object slowly swayed beneath the picture of the snowy house.

And for the first time in my life, I locked the door myself.

I did not look back anymore.