From the outside, James seemed like the perfect husband. Responsible. Attentive. Ambitious.
We lived in a spacious house in Vasant Vihar. On weekends, we had breakfast in Khan Market, walked around India Gate, and made plans like any well-established upper-class couple in Delhi.
When he told me his company had offered him a position in Toronto, I was the first to celebrate.
“It’s my big opportunity,” he said. “Just two years, Sarah. After that we can invest more seriously here in India… maybe start something of our own.”
Two years apart.
Two years during which I would stay behind managing our properties in Gurugram and Bengaluru, our investments, our life.
I trusted him.
Because he was my husband.
Because I loved him.
Until three days before the supposed flight.
He came home early with several boxes.
“I’m getting things ready,” he said enthusiastically. “Everything is more expensive there.”
While he showered, I went into the study to look for some documents from our lawyer. His laptop was open.
I wasn’t searching for anything.
But I found everything.
A confirmed email.
Luxury apartment rental in Gurugram.
Fully furnished.
Two-year contract.
Two registered residents:
James…
Erica.
And an additional note: “Please include a crib in the master bedroom.”
A crib.
I felt the air leave my lungs.
I read every line.
Start date: the same day as his “flight to Canada.”
He wasn’t going to Toronto.
He was moving 30 minutes from our house.
And not only that.
Erica was pregnant.
I thought about our joint account at a bank in Connaught Place.
$650,000.
Most of it came from the inheritance my parents left me when they died in a car accident on the Jaipur highway years ago.
He had insisted we merge everything “for marital transparency.”
Now I understood.
His plan was to fake a life abroad, withdraw money gradually, and finance his new family… without me suspecting a thing.
At Indira Gandhi International Airport, he hugged me in front of everyone.
