Chapter Thirty-Five
Happy Birthday
Ariana
Present
I’d learned a lot about playing my part when it came to my husband, and if there was one lesson that stuck, it was that the more convincing I was, the less he questioned me.
So I leaned into the version of myself Nathan expected.
I was gracious and polished, hanging on his arm at work events and keeping the house running smoothly.
I convinced him I was focused on ribbons and place settings and the logistics of hosting a December birthday.
I fussed over the tree in our living room, adjusting ornaments and lights and leaning into Nathan’s side as we admired it.
I pretended I wasn’t listening when he took calls in the next room.
But I was always listening.
I ached for Shane. I longed for even one stolen moment with him. I imagined going to the arena under the guise of bringing Nathan lunch just to orchestrate a secret meeting with Shane, to steal away in a hidden hallway and feel his hands on me, his lips searing mine.
But it was too dangerous, and there was too much on the line to take such risks.
So, I stayed the course. I reminded myself what was at stake, what could be mine in the end if I remained focused. Shane and I snuck late-night, whispered conversations when we could, when Nathan was out of the house, or when I could get away for a girls’ night.
Otherwise, we were both focused on the task at hand.
The house glowed with warm light three days before my birthday party, the Christmas lights surrounding our space and making it feel soft and safe.
If I weren’t masquerading in my own personal hell, I might have truly felt it.
Garland wrapped along our banister. Our Christmas cards were half enveloped and stamped on the kitchen counter, waiting to be mailed.
I busied myself with those envelopes, writing each name and address in perfect script. Nathan thought the AirPods in my ears were playing an audiobook.
He had no idea they were hooked up to a recording device I’d hidden in his office.
“I told you that money was supposed to clear before the end of the quarter.” A pause. “No, don’t spin it back to me. If it doesn’t move by Friday, we have a problem.”
My pulse ticked faster, but my movements didn’t change.
He was angry. And when he was angry, he was careless.
“You don’t get to decide what I’m exposed to,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “That organization exists because I allow it to. If I need it to absorb a transfer, it does. End of discussion.”
I swallowed.
Sweet Dreams. He had to be talking about Sweet Dreams.
My fingers trembled a bit where I penned the next address.
Nathan went on, irritation sharpening each word. “If you screw this up for me, I will make sure you regret it. You know I will.”
He hung up, and I tapped into the app on my phone that I’d hidden in a folder called period cycle apps. Quickly, I cropped and saved the recording, and then I put my phone away before Nathan’s footsteps came down the hall.
This was what my weeks had looked like since the night I had with Shane.
My heart was never steady, constantly pounding in my chest and vibrating in my ears as I collected as much proof as I could.
I didn’t know if what we had would be enough, but I knew I wouldn’t stop trying.
I knew I would give our plan everything I had — even if we all ended up burning in the end.
Later that night, when Nathan was in the shower, I dismantled our cameras in our shared security app and slid into his office long enough to peek at his laptop. There was a spreadsheet minimized in the corner of the screen, and I didn’t hesitate.
I clicked into it immediately.
The numbers for Sweet Dreams were familiar — donations in, expenditures out — but the middle column was new. There were transfers routed through Sweet Dreams that never appeared in the final budget — and the amounts were too precise to be accidents, too consistent to be coincidence.
I snapped a few photos before slipping out of the office and turning the cameras back on before I plopped down on the couch, stomach in knots as I pretended to watch a home design show on HGTV. I was smiling because I could feel my freedom inching closer.
“What are you smiling about?” Nathan asked when he joined me.
“My birthday,” I said lightly. “It’s just going to be so fun, this big party full of people. Such a wonderful celebration.”
Something flickered in his eyes, one brow ticking up as he watched me like he wasn’t sure he could believe me. I kept my smile in place, my eyes soft.
“It will be a lovely party,” he said finally, taking a seat next to me. He pulled out his phone immediately, scrolling through it. “You’re going to love it.”
And I knew I would.
But not for the reasons he thought.
“Looks like our cameras cut out for a bit,” he mused with furrowed brows.
“I think the Internet was on the fritz,” I offered with a shrug, eyes still on the TV. “We lost streaming, too.”
The next few days were a blur of decorations and fake normalcy.
I confirmed the catering. I double-checked the guest list. I listened while Nathan talked about which executives would be there, who mattered, who I needed to charm. I nodded when he reminded me — again — how important it was that everything go perfectly.
“We only get one chance to make the right impression with our new team, and this is a big part of our first year,” he told me the night before the party. “I need you focused. No disappearing. No silly girl hangouts like you had at the Gala.”
I met his eyes. “Of course.”
That night, after he was asleep, I locked myself in our bathroom and copied the ledger files from his email onto my burner phone.
My reflection stared back at me in the mirror when I was through — and I was the perfect picture of calm composure, my appearance betraying the unsteady waters inside me.
You are not trapped, I told the woman staring back at me. Not anymore.
I thought about the scar on my hand, the one my stepfather had inflicted on me at such a young age I could never forget it.
He’d stayed with me my entire life, not by choice, but because he’d marked me in a way I couldn’t erase.
And I thought about the way Nathan had grabbed me and then acted like it was nothing, like his hand bruising my wrist was deserved.
I thought about birthday candles, about Christmas lights, about how long I’d been shrinking myself to keep the peace.
And about how I was about to be the storm that disrupted everything, the hurricane Nathan would never see coming.
The evening of the party, I stood in front of that same mirror and adjusted my dress, my pulse steady for the first time in weeks.
I looked exactly like the woman Nathan believed he controlled.
But I wasn’t her anymore.
This was survival. This was strategy. This was weeks of careful planning coming to fruition.
Tonight, he would be exposed. Tonight, every threat he’d ever made would come back to bite him. Tonight, the man who thought he owned me would learn what it meant to underestimate the woman standing beside him.
I smoothed my hands over my stomach and met my own eyes.
Happy birthday, Ariana.
It was time.