“Because I followed her. Because I saw the truth.” He stepped closer. “Because for three months, the money we’ve been paying her has been cut in half. Or more. And you’re the one who hands her the envelope.”
Lydia’s expression flickered—surprise, then calculation, then cool dismissal. “Darling, household budgets fluctuate. You know that. Inflation, repairs on the yacht, the new art piece for the foyer—”
“Five hundred dollars, Lydia. While we spent eighty thousand redoing the pool house last month.”
She waved a hand. “You’re overreacting. These people always have stories. She probably has a boyfriend who takes the money. Or drinks it. You can’t save every sob story.”
Ernest felt the last thread of their marriage snap. “Get out.”
“What?”
“Pack a bag. Go to the penthouse downtown. Or to your mother’s. I don’t care. But you’re not staying here tonight. And tomorrow, the lawyers will be in touch.”
Lydia laughed, sharp and brittle. “You’re going to divorce me over the *housekeeper*? After everything I’ve built with you?”
“No,” Ernest said. “I’m going to divorce you because I finally see who I’ve become. Someone who let this happen under my own roof.”
She left in a storm of tears and threats, but the house felt lighter when her taillights disappeared down the long driveway.
Ernest spent the night in his office, digging through financial records. What he found made him sick. Not just Martha. Small deductions across several staff members over the past year. Lydia had been skimming quietly, funneling it into personal accounts and “miscellaneous household expenses” that smelled like designer handbags and spa retreats. He had been too detached to notice.
