The weeks that followed were a blur of surgeries, bandages, and sleepless nights.
Doctors did everything they could, but they were honest with me.
Some scars would never completely disappear.
When I finally looked into a mirror again, I cried.
Not because I thought I was ugly.
Because I realized the woman staring back at me would never again pretend to keep the peace.
Alex visited the hospital twice.
The first time, he spent more time answering work emails than talking to me.
The second time, he brought divorce papers.
“I think this is best for both of us,” he said without meeting my eyes.
I quietly closed the folder.
“I’ll sign them.”
He looked surprised.
“Really?”
“Eventually.”
I waited until he left before calling the one person I trusted completely.
My former supervisor at the accounting firm where I’d worked before getting married.
“Do you still have contacts at the FBI’s financial crimes division?” I asked.
“I do,” she replied.
“Why?”
“I have evidence.”
Within days, I met with federal investigators.
I handed them copies of financial records I’d quietly stored over the years.
Bank statements.
Internal emails.
Contracts.
Corporate ledgers.
Every document had been legally obtained through my work responsibilities, and every copy had been preserved exactly as company policy required.
The agents asked careful questions.
I answered each one.
They never promised an outcome.
Only that they would investigate.
Three months later, federal agents arrived at Edward Foster’s corporate headquarters with search warrants.
Employees watched in stunned silence as boxes of records, computers, and financial files were carried out of the building.
