Wife Exposes Husband's Scheme

The morning coffee had gone cold on my desk, forgotten amid the stack of case files that demanded my attention. Three years of running Thompson Breakup Consulting had taught me to expect the unexpected, but nothing could have prepared me for what walked through my office door at precisely 10:47 AM.

She swept in like she owned the place—designer heels clicking against the polished floor, a Hermès bag swinging from her manicured fingers, and jewelry that caught the light with every calculated movement. Everything about her screamed money, from the silk blouse that probably cost more than most people's rent to the way she surveyed my office with the cool assessment of someone used to getting exactly what she wanted.

"Ms. Thompson?" Her voice carried the kind of confidence that came from never hearing the word 'no.' "I need your services. Immediately."

I gestured to the chair across from my desk, my professional smile sliding into place despite something unsettling about her presence. "Of course. Please, have a seat and tell me how I can help."

She settled into the chair with fluid grace, crossing her legs and fixing me with a stare that felt more like a challenge than a consultation. "I need you to help a wife initiate divorce proceedings. The situation is... delicate."

"I see." I reached for my notepad, pen poised. "What makes this case particularly challenging?"

A smile played at the corners of her mouth—not warm, but predatory. "The husband wants out, but he's too much of a coward to do it himself. He needs the wife to think it's her idea."

The familiar weight of moral ambiguity settled in my chest. I'd handled cases like this before—marriages where one party wanted out but lacked the courage for honest confrontation. Still, something about her tone made my skin crawl.

"What's the husband's primary concern?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

"Oh, where do I start?" She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "He finds her absolutely repulsive now. Especially after she had their child—all those ugly scars across her stomach. He can barely stand to look at her, let alone touch her."

My pen stilled against the paper. A cold finger traced down my spine.

"The poor man has been suffering in silence for years," she continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Every time he sees those hideous marks, he's reminded of how she's let herself go. How she's nothing like the woman he married."

The words hit like physical blows. I forced myself to keep writing, though my hand had begun to tremble slightly. Coincidences happened. Lots of women had cesarean scars. This couldn't be—

"He's been planning his exit strategy for months," she went on, examining her perfect nails. "Quietly moving assets, preparing for his new life. He deserves so much better than what he's trapped with now."

"Assets?" The word came out sharper than intended.

"Mmm." She waved a dismissive hand. "Money that should have been his all along. Her parents' investments,