The next morning, Eleanor woke to an empty house. Nathan had left for his meeting with Draymond Ellis, leaving a Post-it on the coffee maker in his sharpie scrawl: “Breakfast in fridge. Carla’s here at 10. Take your pills.” She crumpled the note, irritated by its condescending tone. Brewing a double shot from her Nespresso—none of Carla’s weak drip coffee—she wheeled into Nathan’s home office, a space she rarely entered anymore. Since her accident, Eleanor had been sidelined from Brooks Design Group’s daily operations. Her architect’s license was still active, but her designs were increasingly tweaked by the team, with Nathan’s approval.
She scanned Nathan’s pristine desk for the Belltown proposal she’d mentioned to Commissioner Torres. Nothing. His computer was password-locked, and Eleanor realized, with a pang, that she no longer knew his password—a stark change from their early days of shared everything. She was about to leave when her phone pinged with a text from an unknown number: “I’m sorry, but you deserve to know the truth about your husband.” Her heart raced. Attached was a photo that stopped her cold—Nathan, his arm intimately around a pregnant woman, leaving what looked like a private clinic near Kerry Park. The timestamp was yesterday, when Nathan claimed he was prepping for the board pitch.
Eleanor stared at the image, her mind racing. The woman’s face was unfamiliar, but Nathan’s tender expression was one she hadn’t seen directed at her in years. As she waited for Nathan to return, the photo burned in her thoughts, a crack in the facade of their life.
Eleanor Brooks sat in their Capitol Hill living room, the photo of Nathan and the pregnant woman searing her mind. The modern space, with its sleek furniture and Puget Sound views, felt colder than ever. When Nathan walked in that evening, loosening his tie, Eleanor steadied herself. “How’d the board pitch go?” she asked, her tone casual as she tucked her phone into her wheelchair’s pocket. Nathan poured himself a Woodford Reserve from the bar cart, not offering her a drink as he once would’ve. “Nailed it,” he said. “Secured funding for Belltown’s expansion.”
“Glad to hear it,” Eleanor replied, her eyes locked on his. “Nathan, who’s Sophia?” The question hung heavy. Nathan’s hand paused mid-sip, the only sign he was rattled. “Sophia Carter,” he said smoothly after a beat. “New project manager for Belltown. Why?” Eleanor held his gaze. “Anything you want to tell me about your relationship with her?” Nathan set his glass down with deliberate care. “She’s a talented pro I’m mentoring. What’s this about, Eleanor?” Without a word, she pulled out her phone and showed him the photo—Nathan, arm around a pregnant Sophia, leaving a women’s health clinic near Kerry Park.
Nathan’s face hardened, but he didn’t flinch. “You’re spying on me?” His voice was ice. “Someone sent this to me,” Eleanor said. “I don’t know who.” Nathan’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “And you jump to the worst conclusion. That’s your problem, Eleanor—you’ve gotten so bitter.” She pressed on. “She’s pregnant, Nathan.” He didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, she is. Her husband’s thrilled about it. I took her to a checkup because she felt faint at work. As her mentor, I was concerned.” His explanation was polished, almost rehearsed.
Eleanor wanted to believe him. The part of her that remembered the Nathan who’d proposed on Alki Beach, promising forever, clung to his words. “Her husband,” she repeated softly. “Greg Carter, works at Amazon. You met him at Brooks Design’s holiday bash at the Space Needle.” Nathan’s details were crisp, convincing. “You really think I’d stoop to an affair with a married, pregnant woman?” he asked, his tone making her doubt sound absurd. “Who sent that photo, anyway? Sounds like someone’s stirring trouble, jealous of our success.” When Eleanor admitted she didn’t know, Nathan nodded, softening. “Anonymous texts aren’t worth your energy.”
As he left to “review contracts,” Eleanor felt a familiar fog of doubt. Had she misread the signs? Since her accident, these moments of second-guessing had become routine. But something in Nathan’s too-perfect story gnawed at her. That night, she lay awake, replaying his recent late nights and vague excuses. By morning, she’d made up her mind. If Nathan was telling the truth, fine. If not, she’d find out. “Carla,” she called to their housekeeper, “help me set up my MacBook Pro in Nathan’s office today. The light’s better there.” Alone in his space, Eleanor began her search for answers.
In Nathan’s sleek home office, Eleanor Brooks moved fast. The Capitol Hill house was quiet, Carla busy in the kitchen. Eleanor had ordered a discreet Blink wireless camera weeks ago, marketed for home security, and now tucked it behind a row of architecture books on Nathan’s shelf, its lens angled at his desk. Next, she rifled through his drawers, finding mostly contracts and pens. But in the bottom drawer, buried under files, was a small key she didn’t recognize. She pocketed it, her heart pounding, and left when Carla called her for lunch.
Over the next week, Eleanor built a new routine. While Nathan was at Brooks Design Group’s downtown office, she streamed the camera’s footage on her tablet, hunting for anything off. Most nights, Nathan spent hours in his office, reviewing spreadsheets or taking calls—nothing unusual. But on Tuesday, he locked the door, a rare move. Eleanor watched live as he made a hushed phone call, his smile too warm, too personal. After hanging up, he used the mystery key to unlock a drawer, pulling out a slim black notebook. He jotted something, then locked it away. The next day, while Nathan was at a Belltown site visit, Eleanor used the key.
The notebook was a ledger, tracking transfers to offshore accounts unlisted in their joint finances. Hundreds of thousands of dollars moved to numbered accounts in the Cayman Islands, with handwritten notes: “condo deposit,” “car payment,” “medical,” and, most damning, “Sophia.” Eleanor’s hands shook as she snapped photos of every page, returning the notebook exactly as found. That afternoon, she called Jenna, a former colleague from their early days at Brooks-Chen Designs. “Eleanor, it’s been forever!” Jenna said, her voice warm over the phone. “How’re you holding up?”
“Getting by,” Eleanor said, keeping her tone light. “Jenna, this is confidential, but do you know a project manager named Sophia Carter?” A pause. “Sophia? Young, always dressed to kill, early thirties?” Jenna asked. “She’s been at Brooks about a year, a rising star.” Jenna hesitated. “There’s talk about Nathan. He’s… invested in her career. Late meetings, private lunches. The office gossip’s in overdrive when they’re together.” Eleanor’s stomach twisted. “Thanks for being straight with me,” she said. “One more thing—is she married to a Greg Carter?”
Jenna laughed. “Sophia? Definitely single. She makes a point of it.” The call ended, and Eleanor felt a strange calm. The pain of confirmation mixed with relief—she wasn’t imagining things. That evening, she studied Nathan closely, noting his quick phone checks and subtle smiles at certain texts. After dinner, he announced a “quick trip” to Portland for a client pitch. “Three days,” he said, sipping a Topo Chico. “The Rainier Towers project.” Eleanor nodded, her face neutral. “Sounds exciting,” she said, already doubting his story. She’d seen an email on his open laptop that morning—the Rainier pitch wasn’t for another month.
Eleanor Brooks knew she needed hard proof. Nathan’s lies were piling up, and she wasn’t about to let him gaslight her again. Sitting in her Capitol Hill home office, surrounded by blueprints from her past designs, she opened her MacBook Pro and started a secure document, listing what she knew: Nathan lied about Sophia’s marital status, funneled money to hidden Cayman Islands accounts, and faked his Portland trip for the Rainier Towers. The email she’d glimpsed confirmed the pitch was weeks away. She needed more, but her gut screamed this was just the start. Had Nathan always been this deceptive, or had her accident changed him?