Then Caleb found me.
He pulled me aside with the urgency of someone holding a bomb. My son was steady, responsible, thoughtful — never dramatic. So when he said, “Mom, we need to talk. Now,” I followed.
He had hired a private investigator. Months of digging. Court records. Financial documents. A bankruptcy Arthur hid. Lawsuits. Collections. Unpaid alimony to an ex-wife. A pattern of manipulation and financial targeting. A history of seeking out women with resources — women with stability he could drain.
“He’s doing the same thing to Rowan,” Caleb said. “And he tried it with you. The prenup saved you. She won’t be so lucky.”
My heart dropped. Suddenly everything about my short marriage to Arthur snapped into place — the way he cooled after signing the prenup, his avoidance of discussions about finances, his withdrawal once he realized he’d never have access to my accounts.
“He didn’t love you,” Caleb said. “He loved the idea of what he could take.”
My son had proof. And Rowan was about to start her life with a man who saw her as a financial opportunity.
I told Caleb the truth: Rowan would never believe us in private. Not now. Not while blinded by the fantasy of loving an older man who “understood her.” So Caleb proposed something bold.
“If he hides in the shadows, we drag him into the light.”
Minutes later, we walked back inside. The reception was buzzing, lights glowing soft gold, laughter echoing through the venue. Rowan looked radiant beside Arthur, who wore that same well-rehearsed calm.
“Arthur,” he said, raising his glass, “before we toast to honesty, maybe you could tell my sister how your ex-wife is doing. The one still waiting for alimony checks.”
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