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

That evening my husband placed me at the door of our own house and told his mistress that a woman like me would never return to this house again.

It was half past seven in the evening. I was standing in front of the old mirror in the bedroom, trying with my fingers to fasten the pearl-colored button that was barely hanging from the collar of the dress. I had bought the dark blue dress before the wedding. The fabric at the sleeves had become worn, the lower seam had opened slightly, but I had no other evening dress left.

Spencer had thrown everything else away years ago.

“It is too simple,” he had told me then. “There is no place for simple things in this house.”

That night, however, I was waiting for him in precisely this house for almost an hour. Warm food was growing cold in the kitchen, the fire in the fireplace had faded, and the call on his phone kept ending again and again.

At twelve minutes past eight, a black car stopped by the door.

Spencer entered the hall, brushed invisible dust from the sleeve of his gray suit, and did not even look at me. Behind him appeared Paisley Daly. She was wearing a champagne-colored dress, and a large diamond necklace was shining around her neck.

I recognized that necklace.

A week earlier Spencer had told me that the company card had been blocked because of a mistake and that they barely even had money for the necessary household expenses.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

Spencer finally looked up at me and smiled ironically.

“Were you really planning to come with us?”

“I am your wife.”

“There will be people there today who know how to behave in society.”

Paisley placed a hand on his shoulder.

“How do I look, Spencer?”

He looked at her the way he had not looked at me for three years.

“Flawless.”

Then his eyes slid down to my worn dress.

“Stay at home, Phoebe. Real people will not waste their evening talking to you.”

My hands were trembling so much that the pearl button fell to the floor. Just then Paisley giggled.

“Now it is clear why he does not take his wife out in society.”

“Spencer,” I said quietly, “did you pay for that necklace with the company’s money?”

His face hardened in one second.

“Do not make scenes.”

“I simply asked you.”

“No, you always do more than you are asked.”

He extended his hand to Paisley. The woman followed him as if this house had belonged to her from the very beginning.

At the door Spencer stopped.

“Do not be here tonight.”

“Where should I go?”

“To your father. After all, he still has money.”

The door closed.

After him, the strong scent of expensive perfume remained in the room, and the small metal clasp torn from my dress fell onto the carpet. I picked it up. It was cold.

At twelve minutes past eight Paisley sent me a photograph. She was sitting beside Spencer in the car and showing a victory sign with her fingers.

“Tonight he will be only mine.”

I read the words three times. Then I opened the bottom drawer. Among the old letters lay a small red velvet box. Inside I had kept my father’s business card, which I had not touched for three years.

I had promised my father that I would test Spencer without my surname and money. I wanted to know whether he loved me, Phoebe, and not the daughter of the Harell family.

Now I knew the answer.

I dialed the number. On the third ring, a tired voice answered.

“Phoebe?”

“Dad,” I barely said. “I want to come home.”

A heavy silence fell on the other side.

“Little one, wait for me at the gate. I am coming.”

Forty minutes later, three black cars stopped by the gate. Raymond Harell saw my dress, touched the torn clasp with his fingers, and his face changed. Before embracing me, his assistant handed him a sealed folder. Father opened the first page, read the first line, and reached for the phone to call…

My father’s fingers stopped on the phone screen.

“Do not call Spencer,” I told him.

“Phoebe, you still do not know what is written here.”

“I know that it is his name.”

Raymond looked at me. For the first time in years I saw in his eyes not only anger, but fear.

The old clock in the hall struck ten. The bronze pendulum hanging on the wall made a small, sharp sound with every movement. I stood barefoot on the cold marble, while my father held the folder in his hands.

“This document says that seven million left your husband’s company during the last month,” he said.

“Where did it go?”

“We are still finding out.”

“And why is my signature here?”

My father did not answer.

Beside my name in the folder lay a signature. At first glance it looked like mine, but the letters were too sharp, as if someone had remembered the movement of my hand and then copied it.

“I never wrote this.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because that day you were in the hospital.”

My breath caught.

Three years earlier, when Spencer told me that my presence hindered his life, I became ill and spent the whole day in a clinic. That day the company had apparently used an account opened in my name.

“Why did you tell me nothing until now?” I asked.

My father closed the folder.

“You yourself asked me not to interfere in your marriage.”

“I did not want help. I wanted the truth.”

“Now the truth may cost us very dearly.”

His assistant, David, placed a small device on the table. It was a black voice recorder with a red light on the side.

“This is our auditor’s recording,” he said. “Today at noon one of Spencer’s partners contacted us.”

A hoarse male voice came from the recorder.

“If Phoebe resists us, the documents signed by her are enough. Everyone will think that she took the money.”

The recording stopped.

“Who said that?” I asked.

David looked at my father.

“The voice has not yet been confirmed.”

“But you already know that this is not only about betrayal.”

“No,” Raymond said. “Spencer was planning to use you.”

At that very moment my phone lit up. A message arrived from an unknown number.

“If you went to your father, there is no point in returning. Tomorrow morning your name will be in every newspaper.”

My father read the message and his jaw tightened.

“Now we are going to the police.”

“Not yet.”

“Phoebe!”

“If he is preparing documents against me, I want to know how far he has gone.”

“You cannot return to his house alone.”

“I will not return alone.”

David raised his head.

“Mrs. Harell, the recordings from the cameras at Spencer’s house will be automatically deleted at midnight today. If we want to preserve them, we must go right now.”

My father looked at me sternly.

“You will stay here.”

“No. My life is in that house. If he is hiding something there, I must see it.”

At a quarter to twelve we were standing at that villa again. We found the gate open. The light was on in the living room, but the cars were no longer in the yard.

When I took hold of the door handle, I heard the sound of an argument from inside.

“You said everything was ready!” Paisley was shouting.

“Be quiet,” Spencer answered. “Phoebe’s father must not find out about the accounts.”

My father leaned toward me.

“Do you hear?”

I nodded. My palms had grown cold.

David found the door to the camera control room. The screens showed different corners of the house. In one recording Spencer was standing beside my dress, holding a small black bag.

“When was this?” I asked.

“This evening,” David said.

We stopped the recording. Spencer was taking documents from the bag and placing them on my desk.

My father hissed through his teeth.

“He is leaving the documents in your room.”

The sound of a door slamming came from above. Spencer’s footsteps were coming down the stairs.

Raymond signaled to the security guards with his eyes to hide. I remained in the middle of the living room.

Spencer entered and stopped when he saw me. First he was surprised, then he regained his confident smile.

“You came back already?” he asked. “I hope you cried for a long time in Daddy’s lap.”

“I am not planning to leave your house tonight.”

“This is my house.”

“Then why were you putting documents in my room?”

His smile faltered for the first time.

Paisley appeared at the top of the stairs, holding my pearl button in her hand.

“Spencer, tell her that we do not have the recording and that she cannot prove anything.”

My father stepped forward.

“We already have the recording.”

Spencer looked first at my father, then at David. But Paisley turned the palest of all.

That night I understood for the first time that not everyone among them possessed the same secret.

And just then Paisley whispered:

“Spencer, you did not tell her who the real owner of that account is…”

After Paisley’s words, such silence fell over the room that it was as if the whole house had stopped breathing.

Spencer turned toward her.

“Be quiet.”

“It is too late,” Paisley answered. “She has already found out everything.”

I looked at the woman standing at the top of the stairs. My torn pearl button was shining in her hand. I could not understand why she had that item.

“Which account owner are you talking about?” I asked.

Spencer came toward me.

“Phoebe, you misunderstood.”

“For three years you have been telling me that I understand nothing. This time I understood perfectly.”

Raymond raised his hand in front of him.

“One more step and security will stop you.”

David placed the sealed folder on the table.

“Now I will tell everything,” he said. “Mr. Conway, this is the independent audit conclusion. Money was leaving your company’s account for a fictitious company that was officially registered as the property of Phoebe Harell.”

Spencer’s face became tense.

“That is a lie.”

“The fictitious company belongs to your lawyer,” David continued. “But the signature on the account was made in Mrs. Harell’s name.”

“I did not sign this,” I said.

“We know,” my father answered.

He took out a second document.

“The signature examination confirmed that it was forged. In addition, bank records establish that on the day the document was executed, Phoebe was in the hospital.”

Spencer stepped backward.

“Raymond arranged all of this. He wants to take over my company.”

“My company was never your property,” my father said. “I only left you the shares transferred to you until my daughter was happy.”

These words affected Spencer more than they affected me.

“What does this mean?” I asked.

My father looked directly at me.

“At the beginning of the marriage I kept the controlling share in your name. Spencer had no right to sell, pledge, or transfer that share to anyone else. By forging your signature, he tried precisely to do that.”

I looked at Spencer.

“You knew?”

He opened his mouth, but could not produce a sound.

Paisley laughed bitterly.

“He knew everything. He told me that in a few months Phoebe would receive nothing and that we would leave this house together.”

“You were involved too?” I asked her.

“I only knew that your husband was leaving his wife. I did not know that he would make you guilty of everything.”

“You are lying,” Spencer roared.

David turned on the voice recorder. That same hoarse voice sounded in the room:

“If Phoebe resists us, the documents signed by her are enough. Everyone will think that she took the money.”

Spencer’s face became gray.

“This recording is illegal.”

“You recorded it yourself,” David said. “Our auditor found the device installed in your partner’s office.”

Raymond took out his phone.

“Now you will call your lawyer and tell him to immediately withdraw the statement filed against Phoebe.”

Spencer shook his head.

“You cannot force me.”

“No,” my father answered calmly. “But the people waiting for you at the door can.”

The sound of a car door closing came from the yard.

Spencer went to the window. Outside stood two investigative vehicles.

I felt no joy. Only exhaustion. As if three years had suddenly pressed down on my shoulders all at once.

“Why did you do this?” I asked Spencer.

He turned toward me. For the first time he no longer looked strong.

“Because your father was always standing behind you. I wanted you to be left with nothing at least once.”

“I stayed with you because of love,” I told him. “But you turned my trust into money.”

At that moment my phone rang. It was an unknown number.

“Am I speaking with Phoebe Harell?” a woman’s voice asked. “I am Lea Morgan, the administrator of the clinic where you were three years ago. Today we discovered an old record in our archive. If you want to find out who entered your room that day and what they took from it, you must come here tomorrow morning.”

The call ended.

Spencer asked me:

“What did she want?”

I did not answer him.

That night the main secret had already been revealed, but the most dangerous part still lay ahead. Because the answer discovered in the clinic archive concerned not only my forged signature…