Chapter 2
THE WORLD IS UPSIDE DOWN
I shelve the same book twice before I realize I’ve already been down this aisle.
The listing loaded on my phone last night while I sat on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinets.
A luxury condo in a converted warehouse—exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows, waterfall marble countertops.
Two bedrooms. A soaking tub. Sold eighteen months ago for four hundred and ten thousand dollars.
Before the renovation. Before the custom cabinetry and the imported tile and the forty-two thousand Randall still owes.
I didn’t ask him about it. He came home late—I heard the Audi, heard him ease the front door open, heard his shoes drop one at a time in the hallway.
I kept my eyes shut when he slid into bed.
His hand found my hip the way it always does, automatic, and I held my breath until his went slow and even.
I couldn’t ask because I don’t know what the question is yet.
And the thing coiling tighter in my chest—the thing I won’t look at directly—is that if I ask and he lies, I won’t catch it.
Randall handles every dollar we have. He’s faster with numbers, smoother with words.
If he has a story ready, I’ll believe it.
Whatever this is goes underground where I can’t reach it.
So I need to understand what I’m looking at before I open my mouth.
“Bridgette.” Natasha is standing at the end of the aisle with a stack of returns. “You already shelved that one. Like two minutes ago.”
I look down at the book in my hand. She’s right. I already put a copy on the shelf—I can see it, same cover, same spine, three slots to the left. “Sorry. I’m—yeah. Sorry.”
“You okay?”
“Didn’t sleep great.” I slide the duplicate out and tuck it into the returns stack. My smile feels crooked on my face. “I’ll do the front display instead. Less chance of me doubling up.”
“Sure.” She watches me a beat too long, then heads back toward the register.
I don’t do the front display. I duck behind the endcap where Natasha can’t see my screen and pull out my phone.
The listing photos are still open in my browser from last night.
I’ve stared at them so many times I could sketch the floor plan from memory—the polished concrete floors, the matte black fixtures, the balcony railing.
Brendan Frye’s work is everywhere. The herringbone backsplash.
The built-ins flanking the living room windows. Trim work that looks hand-milled.
Randall paid for all of it. Through an LLC I didn’t know existed.
My thumb moves before I can stop it. I tap the building name into Instagram—The Lofts at Lakewood—and a grid of posts fills my screen.
Interior shots. Lifestyle content. I scroll past a few posts from other units and then my thumb freezes.
Waterfall marble. The same waterfall marble from the listing—I’d know it anywhere because I spent twenty minutes last night zooming in on those countertops, memorizing the veining pattern.
And here it is on my screen, in a photo of a woman’s hand holding a coffee cup, morning light cutting through tall windows. Same marble. Same windows. Same unit.
I tap the post. The caption reads: Morning rituals in my happy place. ??
I go to the profile. More photos. The living room—and there are Brendan Frye’s built-ins, same ones from the listing, but now styled with books and candles and framed prints.
The concrete floors with a cream sectional arranged on top.
My heart is slamming against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my neck.
I keep scrolling. The kitchen, with that herringbone backsplash I just looked at in the listing photos, now shot with a charcuterie board and wine and a caption about being grateful and blessed. The balcony at sunset—same railing, same view. The bathroom with candles lining the soaking tub.
Then I hit a post from about two months back and my ears go hot. Both of them, fast, like someone lit a match behind my face.
My dream home. Thanks to the man who believes I deserve everything. ??
The account belongs to someone named Sienna. Her bio says content creator / dreamer / living proof that the universe provides.
The universe didn’t provide that condo.
I lock my phone and press it against my thigh. My pulse is hammering in my fingertips. A customer rounds the corner and I smile—bright, helpful—and she walks past without stopping.
Who is this woman? Why is my husband paying for her condo? Maybe she’s a relative I’ve never met. Maybe she’s a tenant posting photos of a place she doesn’t own. Maybe the LLC is some investment vehicle and Randall just forgot to mention—
No. You don’t forget an entire LLC. You don’t set up a shell company with your home address on it and walk through a renovation in person and then come home and climb into bed next to your wife like nothing happened.
I unlock the phone and start screenshotting. The grid. The profile. Every post where I can match details to the listing photos—the marble, the built-ins, the backsplash, the balcony railing. My thumb moves fast, grabbing everything before I can think about why it feels like collecting evidence.
“Hey.” Natasha’s voice right behind me. I nearly drop the phone. “Janet called—she’s not coming in. Can you close?”
“Sure.” I shove the phone into my back pocket. “No problem.”
She’s not looking at my face. She’s looking at my hands. I realize I’m gripping the edge of the shelf hard enough that my knuckles are white. I let go.
“Bridgette. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’ve been somewhere else all morning and you look like you’re about to be sick.”
“I said I’m fine, Natasha.”
She presses her lips together. Doesn’t push. “Okay. But I’m here. When it’s not nothing.”
She walks back toward the register. I lean against the shelf and close my eyes. My heartbeat is in my temples, thick and fast.
Thanks to the man who believes I deserve everything.
A woman is living in a condo my husband bought. Posting photos from inside a renovation he paid for. Thanking a man she won’t name for giving her everything she has.
I keep reaching for explanations and every single one falls apart the second I hold it up to the light.
Natasha is already at our booth when I walk into Murphy’s, two glasses of rosé on the table and a basket of fries between them.
“You sounded weird on the phone.” She pushes my glass toward me. “Drink first or talk first?”
“Talk first.” I slide into the booth and set my phone face-down on the table. “Something happened.”
“Okay.”
“Yesterday a man showed up at my front door. A contractor. He said Randall owes him forty-two thousand dollars for a renovation on a condo I’ve never heard of.”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“814 Lakewood Terrace. Luxury unit in a converted warehouse. Sold for over four hundred thousand.” I can hear myself talking too fast and I can’t slow down.
“The contractor said Randall hired him through an LLC called Millstone Holdings. Said Randall showed up in person, approved the materials, walked the unit during the whole build. Our home address is on the LLC filing, Natasha. He has never mentioned it. Not once.”
“Hold on. Back up.” She leans forward. “Randall has an LLC you didn’t know about?”
“Yes.”
“And he used it to buy a condo?”
“And renovate it. Custom cabinetry, imported tile—the whole thing.”
She picks up her wine and puts it back down without drinking. “Is everything okay with you two? You haven’t mentioned anything.”
“I thought so.” My voice catches. “I don’t even remember the last time we argued. He brought me moussaka from Yiayia’s the other night. We were planning date nights.”
Natasha is quiet for a second. Her face does something I can’t read.
“Where did the money come from?”
“He handles all our finances. Everything. When we sold my grandmother’s cabin, he said he was investing the proceeds. For our future. For when we have kids.” My throat tightens. “But that’s—I mean, the cabin sold for a lot, and a four-hundred-thousand-dollar condo plus a full renovation—”
“Give me the LLC name again.”
“Millstone Holdings.”
She’s already pulling out her phone. “Every LLC registered in the state has a public filing on the Secretary of State’s website.” She’s typing while she talks. “Ryan’s ex tried to hide a duplex during their custody thing. His lawyer found everything online in ten minutes.”
“You can just—look it up? Right now?”
“It’s public record. That’s the whole point.” She turns her screen so I can see it—the state’s business filing search page. She types Millstone Holdings into the search bar and hits enter.
One result.
She taps it and the filing loads. I lean across the table and the rosé in my stomach turns to acid.
Millstone Holdings LLC. Filed fourteen months ago. Registered agent: Randall Logan. Our home address listed right there under the mailing information.
“That’s him,” I say. The words come out wrong, too quiet for this bar. “That’s our address.”
“I see it.” Natasha is reading fast, scrolling down. “Okay. Single-member LLC. Just Randall. No other names.”
“So it’s his. Just his.”
“Just his.”
I press my hands flat on the table. The wood is sticky from someone else’s spilled drink. I can feel my pulse in my palms.
“Now the property.” Natasha is already navigating to another site. “County assessor’s office. You type in the address and it shows you who owns it.” She holds her phone toward me. “Type it in. I don’t remember the exact address.”
My fingers are shaking. I type 814 Lakewood Terrace and it takes me two tries because I keep hitting the wrong keys. The results load.
Owner: Millstone Holdings LLC. Purchase price: $410,000. Cash sale. No mortgage.
Cash. He paid cash.
“Four hundred and ten thousand dollars,” Natasha says, reading over my hand. “In cash. Through an LLC he set up fourteen months ago that you didn’t know about.”
The booth feels like it’s tilting. I grab my wine and take a long swallow and it tastes like nothing.
“There’s more,” I say. “I found something else today. At work.” I pick up my phone and open the screenshots. “I looked up the building on Instagram. A woman is living in the condo. She’s been posting photos of the interior—the renovation, the kitchen, all of it.”
I slide my phone across the table. Natasha picks it up.
“She matched the listing photos,” I say. “The same countertops, the same backsplash, the same built-ins. It’s the same unit.”
Natasha scrolls. Her face tightens as she swipes through the grid—the coffee cup on marble, the styled living room, the sunset balcony.
“Living proof that the universe provides,” she reads from the bio. “Oh my God. She sounds insufferable.”
“Keep going.”
She scrolls further. Stops. Reads the caption and I know which one she’s found because her head comes up slow.
“Thanks to the man who believes I deserve everything.” She puts the phone down on the table between us. “Bridgette.”
“I know.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Sienna. Content creator. Influencer. I have never heard Randall say that name.”
“And she’s thanking some unnamed man for buying her a dream home.
A dream home that your husband paid for in cash through a shell company.
” Natasha picks up the phone again and goes back to the Instagram grid.
She’s scrolling with purpose now—not browsing, hunting.
“When did she start posting from the condo?”
“I don’t know. I screenshotted what I could at work but I didn’t have time to go back through all of it.”
“There.” She angles the screen toward me. A photo I hadn’t reached—Sienna on the balcony, glass of champagne, face visible this time. Young. Pretty. Big smile, perfect blowout. The caption says something about new beginnings and stepping into the life I was always meant to live.
My stomach clenches so hard I taste bile. I shove a fry into my mouth just to have something to chew on so I don’t scream in the middle of Murphy’s.
“Is she the reason?” I say. “Or is she—I don’t know, is there some other explanation I’m not seeing? Maybe she’s a tenant. Maybe he bought the condo as an investment and she’s just renting it and being dramatic on Instagram because that’s what influencers do.”
“Bridgette.” Natasha puts the phone down. She wraps both hands around her wine glass and squeezes. “Would you set up a secret LLC and pay four hundred grand in cash for a rental property and not tell your wife?”
No. No, he wouldn’t. I know that. I’ve known it since last night. I just need someone to say it out loud so I can stop pretending there’s another answer.
“What do I do?”
“You don’t react. Not yet.” She points a fry at me. “You go home tonight, you eat dinner, you smile, you act completely normal. You give him nothing until you have the full picture. Can you do that?”
“I did it last night. He came home late and got into bed and I didn’t say a word.”
Something shifts in her face. “You’re already doing it.”
“Apparently.”
She eats the fry. Looks at me across the booth—this booth, in this bar, where we’ve told each other everything for ten years. Breakups, job disasters, her mom’s diagnosis, my grandmother’s funeral. This is where we bring the things that are too big to carry alone.
“Drink your wine,” she says. “We’re going to figure this out.”
I pick up the glass. The rosé is cold and I can barely taste it. Murphy’s is filling up around us—more voices, more noise, someone feeding quarters into the jukebox. Normal life happening at normal volume.
Randall is at home right now. Or at the office. Or somewhere I don’t know about. He thinks I’m out with Natasha having a glass of wine. He thinks everything is exactly the way he arranged it.
He doesn’t know I spent my afternoon matching Instagram photos to real estate listings.
He doesn’t know I just pulled his name off a state filing.
He doesn’t know his wife is sitting in a bar booth with shaking hands and a phone full of screenshots and the beginning of something that feels less like panic and more like a plan.
I finish my wine. Natasha orders us another round.