A Year And A Day Ch. 03

CAST

Mark Lewis - Our protagonist, an insurance company man who busts fraudsters.

Andrea Lewis-Hampton - A part time saleswoman and mother, Mark is convinced she is cheating on him.

Susie, Mark Jr - Their children.

Jake Lewis - Mark's older brother. A cross between a cranky cowboy and an engineer.

Mandy Lewis - Jake's wife and professional "bimbo". Not too bright... or is it all an act?

Margaret "Maggs" Fields - Andrea's best friend from college. Party girl and serial adulteress.

Frank Fields - Margaret's clueless husband.

Paul Jackson - Executive director of Sales and Marketing. Suspected of having an affair with Andrea. He's up to something.

-=-=-

A Year and a Day - Chapter 3

Jake Lewis

I was choking down a bourbon at this overpriced Hawaiian resort bar - twelve bucks a pour, if you can believe it, when Mandy bounced over, looking like a Barbie doll on a mission. Pink dress hugging every outrageous curve, towering heels and blonde hair swinging like she was filming a Pantene commercial.

"Ready for some fun, honey?" she chirped with a wink.

I knocked back the last of my drink and rolled my eyes. She had her game face on, the one that made her a star online. Don't let the bubble gum vibe fool you, under all that sparkle and sex appeal, she's a shark. Maybe not a great white, possibly just a large pink fluffy shark, with glitter for teeth, but all the same, she's got a bite. Lord knows I've seen her chew up and spit out enough suckers, all with a smile on her face and a giggle on her lips. She's the best kind of woman, and the worst kind, if you know what I mean.

"Let's go babe."

I put my drink down and followed behind her - close, but not too close. We had a plan tonight, one that I thought had a pretty good chance of working. At lest better than when Mark dragged me into this mess months ago. We screwed that one up, well mostly Mandy and I screwed each other and barely managed to remember what we were there for. In the end, it didn't matter - Andrea wasn't even in Chicago, which in its own way was vindication of Mark's suspicions, but still not hard evidence of the affair he suspected.

We move from the casual bar, across the great hotel lobby and into the function area, both of us seeing the victim at the same time. Paul, Andrea's boss. A look was exchanged between us, the kind that only people who have been married practically forever would understand, and I made myself melt into the background while Mandy stepped on the gas.

Now, it's hard to understand the effect my wife has on people unless you've seen it in action. Think something along the lines of, trophy wife Barbie meets an exotic dancer, with twice as much tits and an ass that belongs in a rap video and you'd be in the right neighbourhood, but still not quite there. The best way I can describe it is by describing how people react - mouths hang open, wives slap their husbands, the phones come out and people forget all sense of propriety and just start filming. It's like they can't believe it, things like this don't happen in real life, women like that don't exist in real life.

And they're right in a way, but now we're starting to get metaphysical and complicated.

Anyway, all this happened just like I said it would, and I have to admit, even after seeing this a hundred or so times, it's still pretty amusing watching a room full of people wondering what the fuck is going on. Paul was no different - he saw Mandy approaching the bar and I think he almost dropped his drink in his lap.

This was the reason why we were here. A couple of months ago my brother Mark asked for our help and the three of us outlined this rough plan. Andrea had told him she was jetting off to Hawaii for an RBS sales conference. It was technically true if you tilted your head and squinted your eyes, but everything she left out was a lie of omission so big that it needed it's own zip code. Mark had a GPS on her, sniffed out a shady stash of cash, almost a quarter of a million dollars she shouldn't have and now he needed us to drive the stake through her cheating heart. Paul Jackson, Andrea's scumbag boss, was the target, and Mandy was the lure..

She was already working the mark, Paul was eying her up and down, showing off his veneers and buying her drinks when some RBS geek waddled up, eyes popping out of his skull when he saw Mandy. "No way, I know you! You're famous!"

Mandy, bless her bimbo heart, just giggled and said, "Well, I guess we all know what kind of porn you watch now!"

There was a brief discussion and tubby pulled out his phone and showed something to Paul. Mandy was commenting something and laughing, I couldn't make it out so I drifted closer.

Paul spun around, grinning like he'd hit the jackpot, and I could see the sleaze oozing out of him. "Love your stuff," he slurred, practically drooling. "Got an event tonight--fancy shit. You should come." Mandy giggled, twirling her hair like a cartoon bimbo. "Ooh, sounds so fab! Can my buddy Jake come too? He's, like, my photo guy--makes me look all pretty!" Paul squinted at me, suspicious, probably figuring I was some jealous lug ready to bust his nose.

"Photo guy?" he grumbled, scratching his gut. "Don't need some random jackass ruining the vibe."

Mandy pouted, leaning in with those big doe eyes and a peek of cleavage. "Aw, but he's super good at snapping me! Pleeease? I'll be extra nice!"

She fluttered her lashes, and I swear Paul's brain melted into his pants. "Fine, whatever," he muttered, waving me off like I was a fly. "Just stay out of my way."

I smirked, tipping my glass. Step one nailed--thanks to Mandy's rack and a little quick thinking. This was gonna be a hell of a show.

Mandy Lewis

Okay, so this "event" was at this gorgeous villa off the resort, glass walls letting in the moonlight, palm trees swaying all sexy-like, total rich-bitch heaven! Paul was all grabbing hands ushering me in, and I let him. He was oblivious of course, but I could feel the steam coming out of Jake's ears.

"Oh my gosh, this place is so dreamy!" I giggled.

I sounded like a total airhead, but that's my whole deal, right? Underneath, I'm actually paying attention, and I notice things. The exits, the beefy security guys, the sneaky vibes rolling off these suits. I'm not just a pretty face with an amazing rack (and rear, and pretty much everything else). I'm the one running this circus, and tonight these guys are my monkeys.

The event itself was boring. I took some photos with some of the more adventurous men and women and got a lot of comments about my boobs. You might not think it, but in public settings, it's usually the women who make the comments. Especially if they've had a glass of Chardonnay or two. I was just talking shop with a middle-aged trophy wife, her sex appeal still being held together by what was obviously a fantastic plastic surgeon, when the crowd started to break up. The chubby guy from the bar, one of Paul's lackeys, came over and escorted me off to a side hall. I shot Jake a look and he nodded, placing down his drink and following behind us.

The hall was packed with RBS bigshots, sipping fancy drinks and yakking about boring stuff, but then Paul clapped his hands like some cheesy game-show host. "Time for the real party, folks!" he boomed, herding a smaller crew, including me and Jake, through a side door.

Inside they snatched our phones - rude much? We were ready for that, though. I had a little recorder tucked in my glittery clutch, and Jake's jacket had a button cam that was rolling like a champ.

We stepped into this lush room, all opulent with red cushions everywhere, lights low and sultry. The vibe was electric, like the orgy was just waiting to explode. I squealed, "Eeeek, this is crazy fun!" and grabbed Jake's arm, playing my part.

Paul spotted Andrea, Mark's wife, all dark hair and lost-in-space eyes, and yanked her over. I almost peed my pants. Sure, we hadn't seen Andrea in years, and the last time she met me I didn't look quite like I do now. I was almost sure she wouldn't recognize me, but you never know.

"Meet my VIP," he smirked at me, his hand sliding up the back of Andrea's skirt.

She barely blinked, just swayed there, obviously high. I checked her eyes for recognition, but she was totally zoned out. I felt bad for Mark and their kids, but we had a job to do.

I giggled, "Hi, sweetie! This party's wild, huh?" nudging Jake to get the shot.

Then Paul turned to me, his eyes all glassy and gross. "Hey, hot stuff, why don't you join us? Andrea could use a friend." He pawed at her, grinning like a creep.

I kept my bimbo smile on, even though my skin was crawling. "Oh my gosh, that sounds, like, so fun!" I chirped, then added quick, "But I'm totally parched. Let me grab us some drinks to get this party poppin'!" I winked and twirled away before he could argue.

Paul grunted, "Hurry back," his voice thick with booze.

I sashayed to the bar, hips swinging, and ordered three cocktails. The bartender barely looked at me, so I checked my clutch - yep, the vial Jake gave me was still there. I glanced at Jake, who was pretending to sip his drink near a plant, and whispered, "Get ready," as I passed him the glasses.

"Which one's Paul's?" I muttered.

He pointed to the one in my left hand, then slipped the clear, odorless drug into it while I blocked the view. It dissolved fast. "Showtime," he said, squeezing my arm.

I strutted back to Paul and Andrea. He was on a couch now, Andrea on his lap, her dress hiked up. "Drinks are here!" I sang, handing Paul his special cocktail. "Bottoms up, big guy!"

Paul grabbed it and chugged half, leering at me. Andrea took hers, sipping slow, her hands shaky. I set mine down and kicked things up a notch. "So, Paul, you wanted some fun?" I purred, sliding the spaghetti straps of my tight pink mini dress off my shoulders, letting the clingy fabric slip down to my waist. My massive fake boobs bounced free, no bra to hold them back, nipples stiff from the electric buzz in the air.

Paul's jaw dropped. "Hell yeah," he slurred, the drugs already hitting.

I knelt by Andrea, smiling soft. "Let's make it hot, sweetie," I whispered, parting her legs. I kissed her thighs, teasing up, tasting her skin. She moaned, wet and trembling, her body waking up despite the haze. I licked closer, almost there, feeling her shiver.

Paul watched, panting, his hand working under Andrea's skirt. "Give me a show, girls," he growled.

I kept going, tongue dancing, until Paul lurching up, stumbling toward me, pants open. "My turn," he rasped, reaching.

I was quick and spun around, grabbing his arm. I cooed, "Oh, Paul, Andrea's all ready for you!"

I pushed him toward her. He blinked, woozy, and fell into it, climbing on Andrea and pounding away, sloppy and wild. She gasped, legs shaking, cum already dripping as he thrust.

Jake's cam caught it all while I flounced around, giggling at randoms to keep the cover. It went on forever--Paul grunting, Andrea moaning--until he finally flopped off, wasted. Andrea was a mess, sprawled out, cum splattered across her thighs.

I slid next to Paul, tracing his chest. "Wow, you're a beast," I purred. "Why do you even do these parties?"

He chuckled, slurring bad. "It's the deals, babe. Clients... they want the girls. Keeps 'em happy."

I leaned in, boobs brushing him. "Really? How's that work?"

Paul's head rolled. "We... we hook 'em up. Andrea, Maggie, whoever. They fuck the clients, seal the deal. Then... hic... kickbacks. Big cash, offshore... shell companies, fake invoices. Money's clean, we're rich." He grinned, drooling a little.

I shot Jake a look. He was recording, and so was my clutch. "That's genius," I said.

Paul mumbled, "Last time... construction guy paid double. Andrea fucked him silly, signed the deal. Half to us, half... gone." He never finished, I guess the drugs and alcohol finally caught up with him.

Jake came over. "Got it," he whispered.

I looked at Andrea, barely moving. "We can't leave her like this," I said.

I could tell by the way that Jake looked at her that he didn't share my opinion. I got it - Mark was his brother and Andrea was nothing more than the cheating slut that was destroying his life. Still, I had some sympathy for her. I had been in her position once, before I met Jake. The memories still bothered me - a dark little whisper behind my bubbly façade.

With a sigh, Jake nodded and fished Paul's key card from his pocket. "Room 512. Let's take her there."

We tried to fix Andrea's clothes as best we could. I found a dress that I thought might have been hers and then we hauled her up, arms over our shoulders, and snuck to Paul's room. It was a pretty typical hotel room, actually a bit less appointed than I would have expected from a guy like Paul.

Jake practically tossed Andrea onto the bed. She was out cold, so I covered her up, then Jake noticed Paul's laptop--screen dark until he nudged it.

"Holy shit," he uttered with a low whistle. I peeked over his shoulder and gasped. The laptop wasn't locked, the screen had just been dark. The reason why was obvious - a full screen video was playing of Andrea, Maggie and some other women I didn't know engaged in a gangbang with a bunch of pasty looking accounting type dudes.

"This is a damn gold mine," Jake muttered. He stopped to ponder for a moment.

"I'll grab my drive."

Right. Jake often carried a big external hard drive with us when we travelled. It was where he would store video of photos of whatever we managed to get up to for later editing and posting to my website.

"I'll be back, quick."

I nodded and he gave me a quick peck on the cheek and bolted, leaving me alone.

I wandered over to the hotel style office desk and sat, watching the screen. Hot scenes, bodies tangled. Andrea was on her knees, three men around her - one cock in her mouth, another fucking her from behind, a third groping her tits. She moaned loud, taking it all, her body rocking with every thrust. Then Maggie popped up, riding some exec, her big boobs bouncing as she screamed, his hands digging into her hips while another guy jerked off over her face. The sounds, the grunts, the wet slaps, the gasps. It hit me like a wave. My nipples tightened so hard they ached, and a hot pulse throbbed between my legs. The whole night had been building to this. Molesting Andrea, teasing Paul, watching him fuck her, playing the slutty bait - Damn it, I was so horny I could barely think straight. I needed Jake to fuck me senseless, to pin me down and make me scream.

I couldn't stop myself. My hands moved on their own. One slid up, tweaking my nipples through the dress, pinching them until I gasped. The other slipped under the hem, rubbing my clit through my drenched panties. I spread my legs wider, eyes locked on the screen. Andrea's face now smeared with cum, Maggie getting pounded doggy-style, her ass jiggling with every slam. My fingers pressed harder, circling fast, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. I was losing it, the moans from the video mixing with my own, the heat swallowing me whole. I didn't even hear the hotel staff letting Paul back into his suite.

"Well, well, enjoying my stash?" he sneered, closing the door behind him as he stumbled closer.

I yanked my hands back, heart slamming. "Paul, I..."

He cut me off, grinning like a predator. "Don't play coy. I saw you fingering yourself. You want some of that action, don't you?"

I scrambled back. "No, Paul, I was just waiting for Jake."

He loomed over me, reeking of whiskey. "Jake's not here, but I am. Come on, let's have some fun."

I hit the wall, trapped. "Paul, stop. I don't want this."

He grabbed my wrist, twisting hard. "Oh, but you do. I can see it; you're practically begging for it."

Those words, those damn words still haunted me. I had froze the first time I heard them. Like a deer in the head lights. But that was years ago, a different time and a different me.

I yanked free, shoving him with all my strength. "Let go of me!"

He laughed, grabbing both my arms now, pinning them. "Not until I get what I want," he snarled, slamming me against the wall. His knee forced my legs apart.

"Paul, no!" I screamed, thrashing. I was determined, but he was too strong.

"Shut up," he spat, ripping the strap of my dress. It tore, exposing my breast, and he groped it rough, squeezing until I cried out. "You've been teasing all night. Time to deliver."

I swung at him, but he caught my hand, twisting until I yelped. "Stop fighting, bitch," he growled, shoving me onto the bed. He climbed on top, his weight crushing me, one hand clawing at my panties.

"Please, Paul, don't!" I begged, kicking, but he pinned my thighs, tearing the fabric aside.

"You'll love it," he hissed, fumbling with his belt. My eyes were trying to focus, looking for some way out or something I could hit the bastard with when all of a sudden he just slumped over out cold.

Jake stood there, chest heaving, key card in hand.

I shoved Paul off, scrambling into my husband's arms. "Oh my God, Jake," I gasped, shaking. "Thank you." Relief crashed over me like a tide. I was safe, he'd saved me. But my body was still buzzing, that desperate, aching horniness from the night still burning under my skin. The fear had only sharpened it, adrenaline mixing with the lust I'd been drowning in. "I'm so fucking horny," I whispered, clinging to him. "The whole night... teasing, watching, touching myself... t's been driving me insane! I thought I'd lose it, and then Paul... I'm so glad you're here." My voice cracked, torn between gratitude and need.

He held me tight, smirking. "I know, baby. But we've gotta finish this first."

I groaned, half-laughing. "Fine. Let's grab the files and go. Then you're fucking me until I can't walk, cowboy."

Mark Lewis

I sat there, shifting uncomfortably in the plush leather chair, the faint aroma of brewed coffee and aged books swirling around me. Gretchen Müller's office felt like a strange haven, a quiet corner where I might finally wrestle some control over the mess my life had become. I'd called her a week before Andrea jetted off to Hawaii, a nagging gut feeling telling me something was off - way off. Now, clutching the evidence I'd scraped together, I was ready to lay it all out and take the plunge.

Gretchen cut an imposing figure across the desk. Sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a no-nonsense air that matched her perfectly pressed suit. The fabric rustled faintly as she leaned forward, her stern face easing just a touch when she looked at me. "Mr. Lewis, I've got to say, you've put together quite a case here," she said, her voice low and steady, laced with a subtle German accent that made every word feel deliberate, almost heavy.

I swallowed, my throat tight and dry as sandpaper. "Thanks, Ms. Müller. All I care about is what's best for my kids. That's it."

She gave a brisk nod, her fingers tapping the thick folder I'd handed her. "Let's break this down, then. You're a part-time student, working odd jobs, and the one holding everything together for your children. That's a solid starting point for custody. You've got records - doctor visits, school pickups, all the little things. Then there's Andrea - gone half the time, jetting off on business trips, pulling late nights at the office. It's a pattern, and it's clear as day."

She slid the folder toward me, pausing with her hand on it like she was weighing its importance. "And this video," she continued, her tone dropping. "You said it came from an anonymous source at her conference. It's... well, it's damning. Proof of infidelity doesn't get much clearer than this."

My gut twisted at the thought of that footage. I could still see it - Andrea tangled up with some guy, her face twisted in a way I'd never seen, lost in something that wasn't me. It stung like hell, a knife twisting deeper every time I replayed it in my head. But I shoved the hurt aside. "She's not back for five days," I said, my voice steady despite the ache. "I want her served at the airport. Right there, when she lands."

Gretchen's lips curved into a faint, approving smile. "Bold choice. I like it. We can make that happen. Now, let's talk goals. Custody looks within reach, given your role with the kids and what you've shown me. Texas courts can lean toward the mom sometimes, though, so we've got to dot every 'i.' As for the money side, her behavior might tip the scales for a better split. What's your goal?"

I sucked in a long breath, steadying myself. "The house. I need it for the kids. They've been through enough. They deserve something stable."

Her brow creased, and she tilted her head slightly. "That's a tall order, Mark. Texas splits things down the middle, community property and all that. Proving she's at fault could sway it, but it's no sure thing. We'll need more ammo. What else you got?"

I walked out of there with my head spinning, a cocktail of hope and dread sloshing around inside me. Jake and Mandy were due back tomorrow with whatever they'd dug up from that hard drive. If it was half as good as I hoped, it might just lock this whole thing down.

-=-=-

Those next few days dragged on like a slow bleed. Andrea didn't call, and I didn't bother reaching out either. The quiet between us hung thick, oppressive, but it wasn't a surprise. She was still out there in Hawaii, playing her part in whatever double life she'd built, and I was here, piecing together the wreckage. I couldn't face her - not yet. Not until I had every card in my hand.

Jake showed up the next afternoon, looking like he'd been chewed up and spat out. His eyes were red-rimmed, his shirt wrinkled like he'd slept in it, but he flashed a weary grin as he pressed a USB drive into my palm. "Here it is, man," he said, voice rough from exhaustion. "Everything we pulled off Paul's laptop. It's all there."

My fingers closed around it, trembling just enough to notice. "Jake, I owe you more than I can say."

He clapped my shoulder, a solid thump. "Just use it to bury her. That's all the thanks I need."

I nodded, bracing myself as I headed to my desk. I plugged the drive in, the soft click of it slotting into place louder in my ears than it should've been. The first video loaded, and there she was. Andrea, stark naked on a hotel bed, her skin slick with sweat. Paul was between her legs, gripping her thighs hard, driving into her with a force that made the headboard thud against the wall. She moaned, loud and unrestrained, her body arching like she was chasing every second of it.

I wanted to shut it off, to unsee it, but I couldn't. I had to know. The next clip hit harder: her bent over a desk, skirt bunched around her waist, some anonymous asshole slamming into her from behind. Her hands clung to the desk's edges, knuckles pale, her face flushed red. Pleasure or pain, I couldn't tell anymore. Then the third one - her on her knees, two guys towering over her. One shoved himself into her mouth, the other pawed at her chest, while Paul circled with a camera, chuckling like it was all a game.

My stomach heaved, acid burning up my throat, but I kept my eyes glued to the screen. I had to see how far she'd fallen. Then I spotted it. A folder tagged "Accounts." My old fraud investigator instincts flared up. I knew SAP from my insurance days; big companies like RBS lived by it.

The password would be a bit of a problem, but it turned out, I didn't need to go to any elaborate steps here. Paul was a moron and kept a text file with all of his passwords in it, including his online banking. It was named, I shit you not, "Secrets. txt"

Spreadsheets spilled open, a maze of dirty money. Kickbacks, fake companies, padded bills. One column stopped me cold--steady deposits to Andrea, way beyond her paycheck. Now I knew where the money from her secret account came from. It all made perfect sense.

"This isn't just her screwing around," I muttered, my voice barely breaking the silence. "This is a full-on crime ring and my fucking wife is literally a whore."

I slumped back, my chair creaking under me, my brain buzzing. Gretchen had asked me to find some more ammo, well I had it. The thing is, this wasn't just a bullet to put down my marriage - the things in here would for all intents and purposes end some peoples lives, or at least their freedom. The biggest issue with that being that one of those people just happened to be the mother of my children.

I struggled with what to do.

-=-=-

I made the trip to Jose Goldstien's the next morning, still dizzy from what I'd uncovered. His office was a disaster--stacks of paper teetering, mugs with coffee stains crusting the rims, but Jose himself was a laser, cutting through bullshit like a shark wearing a cheap suit. The guy was pure sleeze, which is why I came to him in the first place. If anyone knew how to use what I had discovered for maximum shitpocalypse, it would be Jose

He plugged the drive in, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he dug into the files. "Mark, this is pure gold," he said, a spark of excitement lighting his voice. "These videos? They trash her credibility, no question. But the accounting stuff - Holy fucking shit. These are fucking federal crimes Mark. If this got into the right hands, being divorced would be the least of your wife's problems."

I slumped in one of Jose's ratty office chairs. The faux leather upholstery was cracked and peeling - a fitting metaphor for my own heart right now. I hated Andrea, I really did - but I still loved her, at least on some level. If I let this get out, what would happen to her? Would it be better for my kids for her to be in jail, or for them to have a mother that could at least see them occasionally? I couldn't make up my mind when that bastard Jose made it up for me.

"Heh, look at that little slut go. Man, I've never seen a bitch take on that many dicks at one time. She's a fucking legend. You sure you want to divorce this? Maybe keep her on tap somehow, you know she'd..."

I never let him finish the sentence.

"That's enough god damn it!" it came out more like a feral growl than a shout. Even Jose, obviously low on morals and tact, was taken aback.

"Hey man, sorry - I just got a little carried away." He tried to look sheepish, but really only succeeded in looking like an over the hill pussyhound trying to plead his case to a nun.

"Just..." I struggled with the words. My mouth felt dry and my hands were trembling.

"Just... make sure this gets to the right people. I need her out of my life. Out of my kids lives."

He met my eyes, nodding slow and firm. "I'll handle it. I'll pass this to the FBI through a contact--interstate fraud, corporate schemes, it's their playground. They'll run with it."

I let out a shaky breath, some of the tension draining out of me. "Thanks, man. Seriously."

He shrugged, already reaching for his phone. "It's what I do. Go home, try to chill. This is gonna take time to play out."

Chill? Fat chance. That night, I sat alone in the dark, a glass of water sweating on the table, untouched. The divorce loomed like a thunderhead, dark and inevitable. I kept kicking myself. Why hadn't I noticed what was going on? Why did I let her go back to work? Why didn't I try to keep here away from that slut Maggs? Hell, I even wondered if all my games and plans weren't somehow partially to blame for where we ended up.

Was I doing the right thing? For me? For the kids? Mandy's words from the party haunted me--Andrea doped up, hollow-eyed, dancing to Paul's tune for him and his clients. Had I missed something? Was she forced into it, caught up in some twisted game?

The idea ate at me, clawing at my resolve. Maybe she'd been sucked in, used up by Paul and his crowd. But then those videos flashed back--the way she moved, the cash piling up in her name. She'd chosen this, stepped over the line for whatever rush or payoff she was after. My kids were what mattered now. Keeping them safe, giving them a shot at normal. That was my anchor.

I sucked in a breath, hardening myself. Andrea had dug her grave, I couldn't trust her anymore. Not with me, not with our kids. I had to make sure that she stayed as far away as possible, even if it meant sending her to jail.

At least, that's what I told myself as I stared up at the dark ceiling of my bedroom, guilt eating my alive until exhaustion finally took over.

-=-=-

Three days later, it was go time. I'd prepped everything. The kids stashed with a sitter I trusted, new locks gleaming on the house, a restraining order tucked in my back pocket. The process server was set to hit Andrea at the gate. I planted myself in the airport terminal, heart thumping against my ribs, watching the crowd swirl around me.

She stepped off the plane looking like a wreck--pale as a sheet, hair a tangled mess, eyes skittering like she knew something was up. The server moved in smooth, like a ship cutting through a wave, standing in front of her and with a fluid motion, handing her the envelope. She stopped dead, staring at it, then tore into it like a wild thing. "What the hell is this?" she yelled, her voice slicing through the chatter, ripping pages as she went.

Paul hustled up behind her, snagging the papers from her hands. He skimmed them fast, his face turning stormy. Before he could open his mouth, Andrea spun on him, nails flashing. She raked his face, leaving red streaks. "This is your fault!" she screeched, her voice cracking with rage.

He grabbed her wrists, but she bit down on his hand, hard enough to draw a yelp and a gush of blood. He stumbled back, clutching it, while security barreled in. They yanked her off him, her arms flailing, screams bouncing off the walls. Paul swore, nursing his wound. The server hung back, shaking his head in amusement. I'm sure he had seen it all before.

I caught the entire mess on my phone, for posterities sake. The ending of a marriage, of a family, possibly even a life. I just wish I knew who to blame.

-=-=-

After that, Andrea fell apart fast. The restraining order didn't stop her, hell it didn't even slow her down. She blew up my phone, voicemails piling up like junk mailers. One minute she'd be crying, "Mark, let me see the kids, please!" The next, she'd snarl, "You'll pay for this, you son of a bitch!" I kept every single one, logging each breach for the lawyers.

She got worse. One night, she pounded on the front door, her fists hammering loud enough to wake the neighborhood. The kids huddled upstairs, scared out of their wits, while I dialed 911. Cops showed up, hauled her off kicking and yelling, her voice fading down the street.

Then there was the park. I was tossing a ball with the kids when she popped up, eyes wild, hair a snarl. "Mark, talk to me, please!" she begged, stumbling closer.

I stepped in front of the kids, my stance rigid. "You're not supposed to be here. Get out."

She grabbed my arm, fingers digging in. "I can explain, just listen!"

I shook her off, voice ice-cold. "There's nothing left to say. You're finished."

People around us were already on their phones, and cops rolled up quick. They cuffed her as she thrashed, tears streaking her face, a mess of smeared makeup and desperation. This was it, arrested, order enforced, game over. I couldn't even stop it at this point if I wanted to.

A few weeks later, a health department letter landed in my mailbox. Andrea had tested positive for an STD. I wasn't surprised, but what did shake me was when her parents told me she had also tested positive for the use of several illegal drugs. She had been staying with them for the last few weeks as her behavior started to unravel and eventually they had to have her carted off to some hospital for treatment, a broken shell of the daughter they had raised.

I sat in the house that night, the silence thick, kids sleeping soundly upstairs. I'd won it all. Full custody, the house, everything. Andrea's whole world was in ruins. But it didn't feel like winning. The fight was done, the dust settled, and all I had left was the long haul of picking up the pieces. The kids needed me steady, needed a life without her chaos. That's what I'd build, no matter how hollow it felt right then. This had been the course that I had set for our lives and I was determined to hold to it until the end.

Andrea Lewis-Hampton

The plane drones on, a low hum that vibrates through my bones. I press my forehead against the window, the glass cool against my clammy skin. The clouds stretch out below, endless and empty, like the inside of my head when the drugs wear off. My fingers dig into my purse, clawing past crumpled tissues and loose change until they close around the familiar orange bottle. Xanax. Two pills spill into my palm, and I toss them back, swallowing hard without water. My throat burns, but I don't care. I need the fog, the quiet. It's the only way to keep the memories of Hawaii from clawing me apart.

The week was a fever dream of sun-soaked days bleeding into nights of chaos. Paul's voice barking commands, his hands shoving me toward strangers with leering grins. "Make them happy, Andrea," he'd slur, his breath sour with whiskey. Men I didn't know, their fingers rough, their bodies heavy. I'd snort a line of coke to stay sharp, then chase it with pills to dull the edges. Sex wasn't soft or sweet, it was raw, bruising, a performance I couldn't escape. And somewhere in the haze, I wondered: Do I like this? The rush, the pain, the way it obliterates everything else. Or is it Paul's doing, his poison seeping into me until I can't tell where he ends and I begin? He's sculpted me into this - his doll, his toy. I hate him for it. Hate Maggs, too, for luring me in with her promises of freedom and fun, then standing by while I drowned. Most of all, I hate myself. I chose this, step by stupid step, until I couldn't see a way out.

Mark's face flickers in my mind, and my chest tightens. He was supposed to save me. My husband, my anchor. But he didn't see the cracks, didn't pull me back from the ledge. Too wrapped up in his own world, or maybe just too weak. I wanted him to fight for me, to drag me out of Paul's orbit. Instead, he let me fall, and now that disappointment's curdled into something uglier - resentment. It's not fair, I know. These are my choices, my failures, but it's easier to blame him than to face the mirror.

The plane lurches, and my stomach twists. Five hours until I'm home. Until I have to look Mark in the eye, hug the kids, pretend I'm still the woman they think I am.

I don't know how to do it anymore.

-=-=-

The airport hits me like a slap - too bright, too loud. My legs wobble as I shuffle off the plane, the Xanax making everything soft around the edges. I just want to get through the crowd, get home, bury myself in bed. Then a man steps in front of me, holding out an envelope. "Andrea Lewis?" His voice is flat, mechanical. I nod, confused, and take it. My fingers tear at the paper, and the words leap out: divorce proceedings, full custody, restraining order. My breath stops. Mark. He's done it. He's cutting me out.

Panic floods me, hot and sharp. I look up, and there's Paul, sauntering over with that smug, oily grin. It's his fault - all of it. Rage explodes, and I'm on him before I can think, nails digging into his face, drawing blood. "You did this, you bastard!" I scream, my voice raw. He grabs my wrists, but I bite down on his hand, tasting salt and metal. He staggers back, cursing, and then security's on me, yanking me away. I kick and sob, the world a blur of shouts and hands.

After that, it's all fragments. I call Mark from a payphone, my voice shaking as I beg. "Please, let me see them. I'm their mom." No answer. I try again, anger taking over. "You can't do this to me, you spineless jerk!" Still nothing. The restraining order burns in my mind, but I can't stop myself. I go to the house. I bang on the door, screaming his name until my throat's hoarse. Through the window, I see Susie and Mark Jr. peeking out, their eyes wide with fear. My babies. The police come, cuff me, drag me off while I wail.

Then the park. I spot them. Mark tossing a ball with the kids, laughing like nothing's wrong. I run over, desperate. "Susie! Marky!" Mark steps between us, his face stone-cold. "You're not supposed to be here," he says, brushing me off like I'm nothing. I grab his arm, pleading, but he pulls away. People stare, whisper. The cops show up again, and this time I don't fight. They cuff me as I slump, tears streaming, my dignity gone.

-=-=-

The hospital smells like bleach and regret, a sterile stench that clings to everything. I'm strapped to a bed, detoxing. I'm shivering and sweating, my body screaming for a fix I can't have. My skin crawls, my muscles ache, and my mind is a chaotic swirl of guilt and broken memories. My parents sit nearby, their faces gray with exhaustion, lines etched deeper than I remember. I'm their burden now, a shattered thing they're forced to piece back together. The despair is a weight I can't shake, a suffocating blanket pressing me into the thin mattress. I think of my kids, Susie's giggles and Mark Jr.'s sticky hugs, and the hole in my chest widens. I've lost them. Lost Mark. Lost myself. I stare at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, a mocking reminder of the life I've thrown away. There's no coming back from this. Just an empty, aching void where my world used to be.

The door creaks open, and a woman steps in. She's middle-aged, with soft brown hair pulled back and a calm demeanor that feels out of place in this cold, clinical room. "Hello, Andrea," she says, her voice gentle but steady. "I'm Dr. Emily Thompson, your therapist. I'm here to help you navigate this." She pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits, her presence quiet but unshakable. My parents shift in their seats, their eyes flickering between me and her.

I don't say anything. What's there to say? I'm a mess, a failure, a ghost of who I used to be. Dr. Thompson doesn't push, just waits, her hands folded in her lap. Finally, she speaks again. "Andrea, I'd like us to talk about what brought you here. Can you tell me how things got to this point?"

My throat tightens, dry and raw. "I don't know where to start," I mumble, my voice barely audible over the hum of the lights.

"Start wherever feels right," she says kindly. "There's no pressure. Just whatever comes to mind."

I take a shaky breath, the air stinging my lungs. "It started with that business trip," I say, the memory crashing over me like a wave. "The one where Maggs and I were supposed to close that big contract. The pressure was intense, and I felt like I was drowning. Maggs suggested we needed to loosen up, to charm the client. She offered me cocaine, said it would help me relax. I'd never done anything like that before, but I was desperate. What I didn't know then was that Maggs was working with Paul to groom me. It wasn't just one night. It took a couple of nights. The drug use kept escalating, and each time I felt myself slipping further. Maggs kept pushing, and eventually, I caved."

My mother's eyes widen, her hand flying to her chest. "Cocaine? Oh, Andrea..."

I nod, the shame burning through me. "I know, Mom. It was stupid. But I took it, and everything blurred. I ended up performing oral sex on the client. I thought it was just a mistake, something I could bury. But Paul found out."

Dr. Thompson's brow furrows slightly. "Paul? How did he find out?"

"I'm pretty sure Maggs was in on it," I say, my voice trembling. "She must have given him the video. There was a recording of me with the client, and Paul had it. He showed it to me, said he'd send it to Mark and get me fired if I didn't do what he wanted. He even offered me money for sex acts, whether with clients, with him, or with whoever, making it clear that I either took the cash or he'd ruin my life."

My father's face turns red, his jaw clenching. "That bastard blackmailed you? We'll make sure he pays for this, Andrea. He can't get away with that."

Dr. Thompson leans forward, her expression serious. "So Paul used this video to manipulate you into a pattern of behavior. But I also hear a lot of self-blame in your voice. Can you tell me how you feel about the choices you made after that?"

I close my eyes, the weight of her question pressing down on me. "I hate myself," I say, my voice cracking. "I was weak. Selfish. I let him pull me in because part of me liked the escape. The drugs and the money made it easier than facing my life, my marriage. I cheated on Mark, over and over, and I didn't even try to stop it. I'm a failure. A terrible wife. A terrible mother. My kids don't even have me anymore."

"You're not a failure," Dr. Thompson says softly, her tone firm but compassionate. "You were coerced and manipulated, and you're struggling with addiction. That doesn't erase who you are at your core."

I shake my head, tears spilling down my cheeks. "You don't get it. I've lost everything. My marriage is gone. Mark won't even look at me, and I don't blame him. My kids are with him, and I can't even see them. My job's gone. My friends are gone. Everything I had is ash. I did this. Me."

My mother reaches out, her hand trembling as she touches my arm. "Sweetheart, you're still our daughter. We love you. We're here to help you through this."

"Help me?" I choke out, bitterness lacing my words. "How can you help me when I've ruined everything? I don't deserve your love. I've been a disaster. A liar. A cheat. You should hate me."

"We don't hate you," my father says, his voice rough with emotion. "We're angry, yes. Angry at Paul and at what he did to you. But we don't hate you, Andrea. We're scared for you. We want you back."

Their words cut deeper than I expect, and a sob escapes me. "I don't know how to come back," I whisper. "I look at what I've done, and it's too much. I should've told Mark the truth after that trip, but I was terrified. I thought he'd leave me, and I couldn't face that. So I hid it. I pretended everything was fine while Paul pulled me deeper. And now it's too late."

"It's not too late to change," Dr. Thompson says, her voice steady. "You've hit a low point, yes, but recovery is possible. It'll be hard, even grueling, but you can rebuild your life."

"How?" I ask, despair clawing at me. "I'm strapped to a bed, shaking like a junkie. I can't even control my own body. How am I supposed to fix anything?"

"One step at a time," my mother says, her grip on my arm tightening. "You don't have to do it alone. We'll be with you."

I look at her, then at my father, their faces a mix of worry and determination. "I don't deserve you," I murmur. "I've let everyone down. I just feel so defeated. Like there's no point."

Dr. Thompson's gaze softens. "That feeling is real, Andrea, and it's valid. But it's not the whole story. You're still here, still fighting, even if it doesn't feel like it. And you have people who believe in you: your parents, me, and the team here. We see a path forward, even if you can't yet."

"I just want my kids," I say, my voice breaking. "I'd do anything to hold them again. But I've screwed that up too."

"We'll work toward that," Dr. Thompson promises. "It won't happen overnight, but if you commit to getting better, really commit, there's a chance to repair those bonds. First, though, you need to heal yourself."

My father clears his throat. "We'll talk to Mark. He's hurt, but he's not cruel. He'll want what's best for the kids, and that means you getting healthy."

I nod weakly, the weight of their hope pressing against my hopelessness. "I feel so alone," I admit, barely a whisper.

"You're not alone," my mother says, tears streaming down her face. "You've got us, honey. We're family. We'll get through this together."

Dr. Thompson smiles faintly. "And I'll be here too, Andrea. Every step. You're not in this by yourself."

I look at them: my parents, weary but unwavering, and Dr. Thompson, calm and resolute. A tiny spark flickers inside me, faint and fragile, but there. "Thank you," I say, my voice trembling. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You don't have to find out," my father says gruffly, brushing a hand over his eyes.

I close my eyes, letting their words settle into the cracks of my broken spirit. The despair is still there, heavy and relentless, but for the first time, it's not the only thing I feel. There's a sliver of something else. Hope, maybe, or just the will to keep going. It's not much, but it's enough for now.

Mark Lewis

The divorce court was nothing like how I had imagined. No shouting matches, no tearful showdown. It was just a sterile room with flickering fluorescent lights and the judge's monotone voice laying out the end of my marriage. Andrea wasn't there. She was strapped to a hospital bed somewhere, detoxing from the mess she'd made of herself, facing charges that could've crushed anyone and still might. Her parents sat across the aisle, their faces tight with strain, avoiding my gaze. I didn't blame them. We were all casualties of this war, just trying to survive the fallout.

The judge's ruling came down like a gavel on my life: "Full custody of the minor children, Susie and Mark Jr., is awarded to the petitioner, Mark Lewis, along with the marital home and the majority of the joint savings." I nodded, my jaw clenched. The house was ours. Mine and the kids'. Andrea's secret stash, that quarter-million she'd squirreled away from her dirty deals with Paul, was gone, snatched up by the FBI in their sweep of RBS. She'd built her castle on sand, and it had washed away.

After the hearing, Andrea's mother cornered me outside the courtroom. Her hands twisted together, her voice low and shaky. "Mark, the prosecutor is offering her a deal. She'll testify against Paul, everything she knows about the kickbacks, the shell companies, the whole operation. They're talking probation, maybe a year tops if she's lucky. She's... she's trying to get better." Her eyes searched mine, pleading for something I couldn't give.

"Good for her," I said, flat and final. "I hope she makes it, for the kids' sake." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't forgiveness either. Her parents had never tried to push me to reconsider the divorce. Thank God for that. They'd seen the videos, the bank records, the proof of what she'd done. They knew I'd had no choice, not really.

RBS was a sinking ship, and Paul was the captain going down with it. The corruption ran deeper than I'd ever guessed: wire fraud, money laundering, racketeering, and a slew of bribery charges tied to interstate deals. I'd done my homework after Jose handed the files to the feds: Paul was looking at 15 to 25 years, depending on how hard the prosecution pushed. His empire of fake invoices and offshore accounts had unraveled, and the clients he'd pimped Andrea out to were scrambling to cut their own deals. His life was over. Prison loomed, his wife had bailed, and his kids wouldn't even take his calls. I couldn't muster a shred of pity. He'd used my wife like a hooker, and now he'd pay.

Andrea's part in it was smaller but uglier. She'd been Paul's tool. Blackmailed at first, sure, but she'd stayed in the game, chasing the money and the high and maybe something darker. Despite what her parents said, a part of me could never believe that any normal woman would have let her life deteriorate to the state that Andrea had. Instead, I believed that she was defective in some way, that she had some dark passenger riding with her, urging her towards her ultimate self-destruction. It was the only thing that really made sense to me.

The kids were starting to adjust to her absence. Susie's questions about "where's Mommy" had tapered off, and Mark Jr. wasn't waking up crying anymore. I'd sat down with her parents a week back, laying it out straight: supervised visits might happen someday, but only if she clawed her way out of the hole she'd dug: clean, sober, and stable. They'd nodded, too worn out to argue, and I'd meant it. The kids deserved a mother, but not the one she'd become.

Jake and I were tight again, closer than we'd ever been as kids. Before all this, our lives had drifted apart. Him with Mandy and their wild world, me juggling work and fatherhood. The strain had been there, unspoken but real. But when I needed him, he'd stepped up, dragging Mandy into the fray to get me the evidence that broke Andrea's lies wide open. We didn't talk about it much, just shared a beer now and then, but the bond was solid. He'd had my back, and that was worth more than words.

Still, as the chaos settled, I couldn't shake the questions gnawing at me. I'd set this whole thing in motion the day I found that receipt and those passport stamps. I didn't talk to Andrea, didn't confront her, didn't give her a chance to explain. Instead, I'd gone straight to Jake, then the slimiest lawyer I could find. Building a case like a hunter stalking prey. Why? Was it really about protecting the kids and our life, keeping them safe from her spiral? Or was it my ego, bruised and bleeding, demanding revenge for the way she'd spurned me?

I turned it over in my head, late at night when the house was quiet. Maybe I was a moralist, fighting for what was right. Maybe I was an opportunist, seizing the chance to punish her. The truth, I figured, was messier: some tangled mix of both. I'd wanted to shield Susie and Mark Jr. from her chaos, but I'd also wanted her to hurt like I did. That honesty stung, but it was mine to carry. The kids were safe now, and that had to be enough.

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, the kind where the world slows down and lets you breathe. I sank into my old recliner, the beat-up one Andrea used to nag me to toss, its familiar creak a comfort I hadn't known I needed. A sweet tea sat on the table beside me, condensation dripping onto the wood. In the living room, Susie sprawled on the floor, her crayons turning a sheet of paper into a chaotic rainbow. Mark Jr. sat cross-legged next to her, crunching pretzels and sneaking crumbs to the dog, who thumped his tail like it was a jackpot.

"Dad, look!" Susie piped up, waving her masterpiece: a lopsided house with a sun that looked more like a fried egg. "It's us!"

I grinned, leaning forward. "That's perfect, kiddo. Best house I've ever seen."

Mark Jr. giggled, pretzel bits flying as he added, "The dog's in it too!"

I ruffled his hair, my chest loosening for the first time in months. The house was still. But it was a good still, peaceful, steady. We'd made it through the storm, and this was the other side: just us, together, building something new. The scars were there, the doubts lingered, but they didn't own me. Not today. Today, it was enough to sit here with my kids, watching them color and laugh, knowing I'd fought for this and won.

Epilogue - Andrea Hampton

It's been eight months since the gavel fell, since Mark took everything. Susie, Mark Jr., the house, my life - even my last name, or I suppose, his last name. The box in my head - the one that I used to keep my dual lives separate from each other, it's not just open now; it's shattered, spilling every mistake, every lie, every moment I let myself fall. I didn't lie about Hawaii, just what I was doing there, and I thought that'd be enough to keep me safe. What a fool I was.

I'm a shell now, a ghost drifting through days that blur into nights, haunting the memory of my old life instead of moving on. After the video of me, spread out, fucked by Paul and those men, his voice spilling RBS's secrets, went viral, I lost everything. My parents say that Mark swears up and down that he's not the one who released it, but who else could it be? I want to be angry at him, to be furious that he would do such a thing, but at the same time, I know I deserve it - and a hell of a lot more.

The FBI seized my $250k, calling it "proceeds of crime," and RBS fired me before the raids even finished. The only silver lining being the deal that I was offered for my testimony - I was essentially on house arrest at my parents and on probation for the next 3 years. It kept me out of jail, allowed me to still get treatment and most importantly, allowed me to have supervised visits with the kids.

The visits were only an hour a month, but I lived for them. I wanted to undo some of the damage I had done to my family, to my children, but it was hard. Susie looks at me like I'm a stranger. Mark Jr. clings to his sister or hides behind furniture. They don't know what I did, but they know something - they know that the state of our family is my fault. I know it. I know it's written on my face. Etched into my soul. A thousand apologies wouldn't even scratch the surface of the sorrow I feel, but it still only amounts to a tiny silver of hope that maybe one day I might have a normal relationship with my own children.

Paul's rotting in federal prison, sentenced to fifteen years for money laundering and bribery. The FBI tore through RBS after they received some files that led them straight to the Cayman accounts. He tried to pin it on me in court, but the evidence crushed him. His wife divorced him, took their three kids, and he's a pariah now, a washed-up exec with nothing but a cell. I hate him, but I hate myself more. I let him pull me down, let him turn me into this.

Maggs, my old college buddy, the one who started all this, is gone too. After the Hawaii fallout, Frank, her husband, got wind of her own dirt. Mark had sent him that Chicago video - Maggs naked with John in the hotel bed, and it was the last straw. Frank filed for divorce, took their son, and moved to Austin. Maggs spiraled, got caught in the RBS probe for her kickback schemes, and last I heard, she's on probation, working some dead-end job at a strip mall. We don't talk anymore. She texted me once, blaming me for "ruining everything," but I didn't reply. She pushed me into that first dare, that first cock, and I can't forgive her. Or myself.

RBS is a corpse, a footnote in business scandals. The FBI raids gutted it. Execs indicted, assets seized, the whole company liquidated under a mountain of lawsuits. Clients bailed, stock tanked, and by the time the dust settled, it was just a name on a Wikipedia page: "Collapsed due to widespread corruption, 2025." My job, my bonuses, my last shred of dignity, all buried in the wreckage. I see the headlines sometimes, on gas station TVs or in crumpled papers, and it's like a knife twisting in my guts.

Mark's thriving, of course. He's got the kids, the house, a new life I can't touch. Mom told me he's dating someone--a quiet woman, a teacher, good with Susie and Mark Jr. They're a family again, rebuilt without me, and I see them sometimes in my supervised hours, laughing like I never existed. Susie's growing so fast, her hair longer now, and Mark Jr.'s got Mark's eyes, that sharp look that sees through me. They don't need me, don't want me, and I can't blame them. I broke us.

I'm not sure how long I can keep going. The pills help me sleep, but the dreams - Susie crying, Mark's cold stare, Paul's hands. They wake me up screaming. I've got no money, no job, no husband and one hour a month with my kids. I tried applying at a diner last week, but the manager leered at me in the way that Paul used to, and I fled. The trauma was so overwhelming that I spent two days hiding in my childhood room, my mother leaving plates of food outside the door.

I'm not right. I know that. I think I was never right. Sure, Maggs might have dazzled me with her stories and her lifestyle, might have influenced me in ways a real friend wouldn't have, but I went along with it and squandered every little opportunity I ever had to get out or save my family. That's on me. It's a burden of shame that I'll never be able to drop.

And that's the worst part of everything - the amount of pain I've caused everyone who ever loved me, my parents, Mark, our children - there's no reason for it. It's senseless. I just felt like the world owed me something, not much, just a little bit - and then when it got it's hooks into me, I was too weak and stubborn and scared to break free. I actually had the happiness I had been chasing all along, I just couldn't see it until it was too late.

-=-=-

I don't know how I feel about this story. I don't think it's bad, but I think it's not that close to the quality of what I could produce, despite it being too big for my own good. This last chapter ended up being the same size as chapter 1 and 2 combined, so it's huge - and I still feel like it's lacking. There's so much I wanted to fit into the story, but I've come to realize that super long, 20k+ works are not something that I have the level of commitment for, so I'm never going to do one again. I'm just glad that this one is finished.

I had a lot of plots that I dropped, characters that I revised, and narrative that I abandoned because it would have made the story so long that I would never have completed it. As it stands, It took me almost a year and a day to write the last instalment, which I found kind of funny.

Anyway, when you want to get something done, you just cut and cut and cut until you have just the bones of the story that you need to write, and then you work from there. Narratively, I think the story is fine - I hit all the major points. Goodies get their rewards, Baddies gets their (just) desserts,