She pointed to Lance, who was surrounded by a group of colleagues, regaling them with a story. He was holding a framed photo – the one from the Facebook fundraiser. He looked… genuinely heartbroken. “He told everyone you were a saint, Whitney. Said you faced your illness with grace and courage. He conveniently left out the part where he abandoned you at home." I swallowed the lump in my throat. Then, I noticed a woman approaching Lance, a beautiful blonde in a red dress. She placed a hand on his arm, and he leaned in, whispering something that made her smile. A possessive, intimate smile. “Who is that?” I asked Gwen, my voice barely a whisper. “That’s Bethany. From accounting. She and Lance have been… close, for months.”
The Accounting of Lies
Gwen’s words hit me like another round of chemotherapy. “Close?” “Let’s just say she’s been a very supportive colleague during this… difficult time,” Gwen said, her voice laced with acid. “She’s been organizing everything for the ‘memorial.’ The flowers, the music, even his outfit. She practically wrote the speech he’s supposed to give.” I watched Lance, his hand still lingering on Bethany’s arm. He caught my eye and his face froze. For a split second, the carefully constructed facade of grief crumbled, replaced by a flicker of panic. Then, he plastered on a sorrowful expression and began to make his way toward me, weaving through the crowd. “Whitney!” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with false concern. “I… I didn’t expect to see you. You should be resting.”
“I decided I wanted to pay my respects,” I said, my tone cold. “It’s quite a party you’ve thrown for me.” His jaw tightened. “I just wanted to do something to honor your memory… to give everyone a chance to say goodbye.” “My memory?” I repeated, incredulous. “You’re talking about me as if I’m gone.” He glanced nervously at Bethany, who was watching us with a calculating expression. “Everyone thinks you’re gone, Whitney. It’s… easier for everyone this way.” “Easier for *you*,” I corrected, my voice rising. “Easier to collect $48,000 and move on with Bethany?”
The Speech and the Secret Account
Lance’s face flushed crimson. “That’s a lie! Bethany is just a friend. And the money… the money is for your care, Whitney. For when you… for when you need it.” “Oh, I think I’m capable of managing my own finances, thank you very much,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I checked our joint account. It’s practically empty. Where did all the money go, Lance?” He stammered, searching for an answer. “I… I invested it. For our future.” “Invested it? In what? Bethany’s new handbag?” Before he could respond, the event organizer tapped him on the shoulder.
“Lance, it’s time. They’re ready for you on stage.” He hesitated, his eyes darting between me and Bethany. Then, he forced a smile and walked toward the makeshift stage that had been set up on the terrace. He began to speak, his voice amplified by the sound system. He recounted stories of our life together, painting a picture of a perfect marriage, a loving wife, and a tragic loss. It was all lies. Gwen discreetly handed me her phone. “I hacked into Lance’s email. Found something you should see.” On the screen was an email from a financial advisor, confirming a transfer of $40,000 to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. The account was solely in Lance’s name. Below it, a receipt for a down payment on a beachfront condo in Belize. The date? Yesterday.
The truth was finally coming out — and there was no turning back now… (Continue to Part 3 →)
