From the outside, James seemed like the perfect husband.
Responsible. Caring. Ambitious.
We lived in a large house in Neuilly-sur-Seine. On weekends, we had breakfast in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, we strolled along the Champs-Élysées, we made plans like any stable and well-off couple in Paris.
When he told me that his company was offering him a position in Montreal, I was the first to congratulate him.
"This is the biggest opportunity of my career," he told me. "It will only be for two years, Sarah. After that, we can invest more here in France… maybe even start our own business."
Two years apart.
Two years during which I would remain to manage our apartments in Lyon and Bordeaux, our investments, our life.
I trusted him.
Because he was my husband.
Because I loved him.
Up to three days before the alleged flight.
He came home early with several boxes.
"I'm getting a head start," he said enthusiastically. "Everything is more expensive there."
While he was taking a shower, I went into the office to look for the notary's documents. His laptop was open.
I wasn't looking for anything.
But I found everything.
A confirmation email.
Luxury apartment for rent in the 7th arrondissement of Paris.
Fully furnished.
Two-year contract.
Two registered residents:
James…
Erica.
And one more note: "Please include a crib in the master bedroom."
A cradle.
I felt like I couldn't breathe.
I read every line.
Start date: the same day as his flight to Canada.
He wasn't going to Montreal.
He was settling twenty minutes from our house.
And that wasn't all.
Erica was pregnant.
I thought about our joint account at a bank in La Défense.
€650,000.
The majority came from the inheritance my parents left me when they died in a car accident on the motorway near Orléans.
He had insisted that we share everything "for the sake of marital transparency".
I understood now.
His plan was to simulate a life abroad, withdraw the money gradually and finance his new family… without arousing my suspicions.
At Paris-Charles-de-Gaulle Airport, he hugged me in front of everyone.
"It's for us," he murmured.
I cried.
But no sadness.
I was crying because I already knew the truth.
When I saw him go through security, I knew he wouldn't be flying to Canada. He would exit through another door and take a taxi to the 7th arrondissement.
And that's when I made my decision.
I will not be the deceived woman who waits.
I will be the woman who acts.
When I got home, I sat in the dining room where we had made so many plans.
I called the bank.
The account was joint, but we were both account holders. Legally, I could transfer the funds. Furthermore, I had documents proving that a large portion of the capital came directly from my inheritance.
One hour.
Just one hour between naivety and determination.
I transferred the €650,000 into a personal account in my name only.
Silent.
Legal.
Irreversible.
Then I called my family's lawyer in Paris.
"I want to start the divorce proceedings immediately," I told him.
That night, I cried.
Not because he had left me.
But because he had almost made me the unwitting financier of his new life.
The next day, he called me.
"I arrived in Montreal," he said, with airport sounds in the background.
What an actor.
"How did the flight go?" I asked calmly.
— Challenging, but it will be worth it for our future.
OUR.
For three days, he continued to call from his "Canada." White hallways. Parking lots. Car interiors.
If I hadn't seen the rental agreement, I would have believed every one of his lies.
On the fifth day, he received the official notification of divorce.
He called me furious.
— What is this, Sarah?
— The consequence of your decisions.
— You don't know what you're doing.
— I know perfectly well. I know about the apartment in the 7th. I know about Erica. I know about the baby.
Silence.
The silence on the other end of the line was not an excuse.
It was the beginning of his downfall.
Part 2…
