Chapter 3 - The Apartment My Wife Never Told Me About
The next morning, I woke up with one question running through my mind.
Who was Lawrence Carter?
I had never heard Jasmine mention him.
Not once in seven years.
Yet his name appeared on documents connected to a luxury apartment my wife had secretly rented.
I wanted to confront her immediately.
But something stopped me.
Mom was sleeping peacefully in the guest room.
For the first time in months, she wasn't worried about being watched or corrected.
I couldn't bring more chaos into the house without understanding what I had found.
So I called my oldest friend.
David Brooks.
David was forty-nine and had known me since high school.
He was also an attorney.
He handled business disputes and knew several people who specialized in family law.
When I explained what had happened, he went quiet.
Then he said, "Marcus, you need legal advice before you confront Jasmine about anything else."
"I already threw her out."
"I understand why. But now you need to handle the property and marriage issues carefully."
I sat at the kitchen counter.
"Do you think she's trying to leave me?"
David hesitated.
"I think there's more happening than you've been told."
He asked me to preserve the bank statements and emails without altering them.
Then he gave me the name of a family law attorney.
Angela Price.
I scheduled a meeting for that afternoon.
Before leaving, I checked on Mom.
She was sitting in the backyard with a cup of tea.
The sunlight touched her gray hair.
For a moment, she looked like the mother I remembered from childhood.
Peaceful.
Strong.
Smiling.
"Going to work, baby?"
"Not today."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Everything okay?"
I sat beside her.
"I'm sorting out some things."
She studied my face.
"You're worried."
I took her hand.
"I'm worried I haven't been paying attention."
She squeezed my fingers.
"Then start paying attention now."
Those words stayed with me.
Angela's office was on the fourth floor of a downtown Atlanta building.
She was direct.
Careful.
And didn't waste time.
I told her everything.
The dinner.
The suitcase.
The secret rules.
The transfers.
The apartment.
She listened without interrupting.
Then she asked a question I hadn't expected.
"Whose name is on your house?"
"Mine."
"Purchased before marriage?"
"Yes. Four years before I married Jasmine."
She nodded.
"That matters, although ownership and marital claims can still involve legal details."
She asked whether Jasmine contributed toward the mortgage or renovations.
I explained that the mortgage had been paid off before our wedding.
My business had covered most household expenses.
Jasmine worked as an interior design consultant, but her income was inconsistent.
Angela reviewed the banking documents.
"These transfers are significant."
"Can I recover the money?"
"Possibly, depending on the source of the funds and the circumstances. First, we need complete records."
I leaned forward.
"What about the apartment?"
She looked at the lease.
"She may have a perfectly legal right to rent an apartment. The concern is whether marital funds were used improperly and whether other facts are being concealed."
I nodded.
That was reasonable.
But it didn't ease my suspicion.
Angela recommended formal financial disclosures if we pursued separation or divorce.
She also told me not to change locks, dispose of Jasmine's belongings, or interfere with her lawful access without legal guidance.
I listened.
I had already acted in anger once.
From that point forward, I wanted to act carefully.
After the meeting, I drove to Buckhead.
I didn't enter the apartment.
I simply parked across the street from the building listed on the lease.
It was modern and expensive.
Glass balconies.
Private parking.
A security desk near the entrance.
The kind of place Jasmine loved.
I watched the lobby for several minutes.
Then a dark SUV pulled into the driveway.
Jasmine stepped out.
She wore a cream-colored blazer and sunglasses.
A man got out from the driver's side.
Tall.
Well dressed.
About forty.
He placed a hand against her lower back.
She smiled at him.
My stomach turned.
He leaned close and kissed her cheek.
Then they entered the building together.
I sat motionless.
I knew I shouldn't jump to conclusions about every gesture.
But there was something intimate about the way they moved.
The way she touched his arm.
The way he looked at her.
It reminded me of how Jasmine used to look at me.
Before everything changed.
I photographed the vehicle's license plate from where I was parked.
Then I drove away.
I didn't follow them.
I didn't confront them.
I went home.
Mom was preparing lunch when I arrived.
She had made cornbread and vegetable soup.
The familiar smell filled the kitchen.
"Come eat, Marcus."
I sat down.
She placed a bowl in front of me.
For several minutes, we ate quietly.
Then she asked, "Did you speak to Jasmine?"
"Not today."
Mom nodded.
"I hope you two can find peace."
I looked at her.
"Mom, do you miss having her here?"
She lowered her spoon.
She thought for a long time.
Then she whispered, "I miss the woman she pretended to be."
That answer broke my heart.
Because I understood exactly what she meant.
Later that evening, my phone rang.
Jasmine.
I answered.
"Marcus, we need to stop this nonsense."
Her voice was sharp.
I stayed quiet.
"I've been staying with a friend. Do you know how embarrassing this is?"
"Are you safe?"
She paused.
"What?"
"Are you somewhere safe?"
"Of course I am."
"Good."
She sighed dramatically.
"Marcus, your mother is exaggerating. You know how older people get."
I felt anger rise.
But I controlled it.
"Don't insult her."
"I'm not insulting her. I'm explaining."
"You put her outside."
Jasmine went silent.
Then she said, "I made a mistake."
It was the first time she'd admitted even that much.
But her next words ruined it.
"She pushed me to it."
I closed my eyes.
"No, Jasmine. She was hungry."
"You don't understand what it's like living with her."
"Then explain it."
She hesitated.
"She's always there. Always watching. Always making me feel like a guest in my own home."
I was stunned.
"Mom spends most of her time in her room."
"Exactly! Like she's judging me!"
I took a breath.
"So because you felt judged, you controlled her meals?"
Silence.
Then Jasmine changed the subject.
"We need to talk about our marriage."
"I agree."
"Good. Come meet me tomorrow."
"Where?"
She hesitated again.
"There's a place in Buckhead."
My pulse quickened.
"What place?"
"A friend's apartment."
I looked at the lease agreement on my desk.
"Whose friend?"
Another pause.
"Why are you interrogating me?"
I almost told her everything.
But I stopped.
"I'll speak with you through our attorneys."
She laughed bitterly.
"Attorneys? Marcus, seriously?"
"Yes."
Her tone changed instantly.
"You're going to regret this."
Then she hung up.
I sat in silence.
Ten minutes later, I received a message from an unknown number.
It contained a photograph.
Jasmine.
Lawrence.
Standing together on a balcony.
His arm was wrapped around her waist.
Below the photograph was a message.
"Your wife isn't the only person keeping secrets."
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
"Ask Jasmine what she planned to do with your mother's inheritance."
I stopped breathing.
My mother's inheritance?
Mom had never mentioned having money beyond her small retirement savings.
I looked toward the hallway.
Her bedroom door was open.
She was quietly folding laundry.
Suddenly, I realized the secret apartment might not have been the most important thing Jasmine had been hiding.
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And the next conversation I needed to have wasn't with my wife.
It was with my mother.
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