That day he arrived home from work earlier than usual… and upon opening the door, he understood that he had been arriving late for a very long time.

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Chapter 1: A Change in Schedule

The November rain in Seattle never truly stopped. It lingered, persistent, turning the city into a pale, ash-gray canvas.

I, Arthur Vance, 42, Chief Financial Officer of a venture capital firm, was driving my Audi Q7 home. The clock on the dashboard showed 2:30 p.m.

This was an unprecedented event.

In my ten years of marriage to Clara, I had never been home before 8 p.m. Work was a time-devouring monster, and I prided myself on nurturing that monster in exchange for a lavish lifestyle for my family: a lakeside mansion, private school for my daughter Mia, and European vacations.

But today was our tenth wedding anniversary. I wanted to surprise them. I canceled the meeting, turned off my phone, bought a bouquet of peonies (Clara’s favorite flower) and a diamond necklace.

I imagined Clara sitting by the window reading, or gardening. She would be surprised, perhaps even cry with happiness. We would have a romantic afternoon we’d missed for so long.

The car rolled through the security gate of Mercer Island. Our villa appeared, silent and majestic in the rain.

I didn’t press the garage door open. I parked on the side street, wanting to keep it a secret until the last minute.

I tiptoed onto the porch, inserting the key into the ignition. The heavy oak door opened silently.

“Clara?” I tried to call, but the sound choked in my throat.

There was a strange noise coming from the living room.

It wasn’t the classical music Clara usually listened to. Nor was it the TV.

It was the sound of… tape.

The swoosh… swoosh… of industrial tape being pulled and stuck down.

And a groan.

A chill ran down my spine. A burglar?

I placed the bouquet on the floor and tiptoed down the hallway. I wasn’t armed, only my briefcase. My heart pounded.

I crouched behind the wall separating the hallway from the living room, peeking inside.

And my world crumbled.

Chapter 2: The Living Room of Ghosts

My luxurious living room, with its art pieces and cream-colored Italian leather sofa, had vanished.

In its place, the entire floor and walls were covered in transparent plastic sheets, the kind used in construction.

In the middle of the room, a strange man was tied to the old wooden chair I had intended to throw away last year. His mouth was gagged, his eyes wide open, blood gushing from a cut on his forehead.

Standing before him was Clara.

My wife. The gentle, frail woman who always complained of migraines and a fear of spiders.

She was wearing a tight-fitting white protective suit (the kind used in laboratories or crime scenes), and blue rubber gloves. In her hands wasn’t a book or a cup of tea.

It was a gleaming scalpel.

And standing beside her, calmly cleaning a silenced pistol, was Mia.

My nine-year-old daughter.

Mia was also wearing a small protective suit. She showed no fear. She handled the gun with the skill of a veteran, checked the magazine, and then placed it on the glass table (which was covered in plastic).

“Mom,” Mia said, her voice cold, devoid of any childlike innocence. “This guy is very stubborn. He won’t give me the Swiss bank account number.”

“Be patient, my dear,” Clara replied, her voice the same one I heard every night, but now as sharp as the blade in her hand. “No one can keep a secret when their fingers are separated from their hands.”

I covered my mouth to stifle a gag. My legs gave way.

These weren’t my wife and child. These were monsters in human form.

The bound man groaned, shaking his head frantically, snot and tears streaming down his face. He looked at Clara with an expression of utter pleading.

“Don’t look at me like that, Richard,” Clara said.

Richard? I squinted, scrutinizing the man.

It was Richard Sterling. My biggest rival. The man who had just won the billion-dollar project I’d lost last week. I’d been complaining to Clara about him for a whole month. I’d told her he was a stumbling block, a sleepless night.

“My husband is upset because of you, Richard,” Clara said softly, stroking the blade. “Arthur works so hard. You shouldn’t steal his contract.”

“Uh… uh…” Richard mumbled through the tape.

“Mia, turn on the music,” Clara commanded. “Baby Shark. I hate screaming.”

Mia pressed a button on her iPad. Cheerful children’s music blared, creating a horrifying contrast to the torture that was about to unfold.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I recoiled, bumping into a ceramic vase in the hallway.

CRASH!

The sound of shattering glass drowned out the music.

All movement in the living room stopped.

Mia spun around, the gun now firmly in her hand, pointed toward the hallway.

Clara slowly turned her head. Her eyes—those warm brown eyes I loved so much—were now cold and empty.

“Arthur?” Clara called. Her voice held no panic. Only a gentle disappointment. “You’re home so early.”

Chapter 3: The Late Truth

I stepped into the light, my hands raised to the sky, trembling.

“Clara… Mi

“A… what’s going on?” I stammered.

Mia lowered her gun slightly, looking at her mother. “Mom, Dad messed up the process. We haven’t finished cleaning up yet.”

“It’s alright, dear,” Clara took off her mask, revealing a beautiful but expressionless face. She walked towards me, careful not to step on the blood on the wooden floor (even though it was covered with plastic sheeting).

“What are you doing?” I pointed at Richard. “Are you killing someone?”

“I’m helping you, Arthur,” Clara said as if she had just baked a cake. “You’re always complaining about Richard. You say he plays dirty. You say he hides money overseas. I’m just… getting justice for you.”

“By torturing him?” I yelled. “And Mia? She’s only 9 years old!”

“Mia is gifted,” Clara looked at her daughter proudly. “She learns very quickly. Arthur, why do you think you’ve been so successful for the past 10 years?” “Why do your rivals keep having accidents, going bankrupt, or disappearing one after another?”

I was speechless.

Memories flooded back.
In 2015, when I was running for Vice President, my rival had a car accident, broke both legs, and withdrew. Clara comforted me when I pretended to be sad.
In 2018, when I was under investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission, a key witness suddenly died of food poisoning. Clara threw a celebratory party when I was acquitted.

And dozens of other minor incidents.

“It was you…” I whispered. “You did it all?”

“I was a cleaner before we got married, Arthur,” Clara confessed. “I belonged to an organization you don’t want to know the name of. When I married you, I ‘retired.’ But I realized you were too weak. You had ambition but no claws. So I secretly… supported you.”

“And Mia?”

“She’s my daughter.” “The genes are very strong,” Clara laughed. “It found out you were working underground last year. Instead of being scared, it asked for help. It’s a great help.”

I looked at the two women in my life. A killer wife. An apprentice daughter. And me – a foolish man sitting on a throne built with the blood of others, mistaking it for his own sweat.

“Release him,” I said, pointing at Richard. “We’ll call the police.”

Clara sighed. She looked at her watch.

“Arthur, you’re too naive. If you release him, he’ll report us. You’ll lose everything. Your career, your money, your reputation. Do you want to go back to being a lowly employee?”

“I don’t care!” “I don’t want to be a murderer!”

“You already are a murderer,” Mia said, her voice icy. “My tuition, your car, this house… all bought with money from Mom’s ‘cleaning’ jobs. You’ve been enjoying it for 10 years.”

I recoiled. I saw the contempt in my daughter’s eyes.

“You’re home too early, Arthur,” Clara stepped forward, stroking my cheek with her gloved hand stained with Richard’s blood. “You should have been home by 8 o’clock. Then this room would be spotless. Richard would be found in a drunk driving accident in the suburbs. And we’d have a nice celebratory dinner.”

She kissed my lips lightly.

“You always come home late. And your absence is your safety. You didn’t see, you didn’t know, so you’re innocent.” “But today…”

She stepped back, looking at me with a sad expression.

“Today you came home earlier than usual… and when you opened the door, you realized how late you’ve been for so long.”

Coming home late to understand his wife. Coming home late to discipline his children. Coming home late to realize he was living in hell.

Chapter 4: The Final Choice

“Now what?” I asked, my eyes fixed on the gun on the table.

Clara followed my gaze. She was faster. She kicked the gun toward Mia. Mia grabbed it, pointing it straight at me. Without hesitation.

“Mom?” Mia asked. “What do we do with Dad?”

I looked at my daughter. She was ready to shoot me. The child I carried on my shoulders, reading fairy tales to every night.

“No, Mia,” Clara said. “Dad is family.”

Clara turned to me.

“You have two choices, Arthur.” “One option is for you to leave the house, get in your car, and drive away for two hours. When you come back, everything will be back to normal. Richard will be gone. We’ll have dinner. And you’ll never mention this again.”

“The other option?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“The other option is for you to call the police,” Clara said. “But before they arrive, Mia and I will disappear. You’ll stay here with Richard’s corpse and your fingerprints (which I’ll create right now). You’ll go to jail in place of us.” “Because I know you love me, and you won’t let Mia go to reform school.”

Her cruelty and calculation sent chills down my spine. She held all the cards. She always held all the cards.

Richard groaned in his chair, “Arthur… save me… don’t let him kill me…”

I looked at Richard. Then I looked at Clara and Mia.

I looked at the scattered peony bouquet on the floor.

I understood that my old life had ended the moment I walked through that door. I couldn’t save Richard without destroying myself. And more frightening, a dark part of me… the part that had enjoyed success for the past 10 years… was whispering: Let her finish the job.

I bent down and picked up my briefcase.

“8 p.m.,” I said, not daring to look Richard in the eye. “I’ll be back at 8 p.m.”

“Okay, my love,” Clara smiled brightly.

“I’ll make Beef Wellington. Your favorite.”

“Goodbye, Dad,” Mia waved, her other hand still holding the gun.

I turned and walked out of the house.

I got in my car and started the engine. I drove out of the neighborhood, aimlessly through the pouring rain.

I pulled into an empty parking lot overlooking Lake Washington. I buried my head in the steering wheel and cried.

I wasn’t crying out of fear. I was crying because I had made a choice. I had chosen to be an accomplice. I had chosen wealth and security over conscience.

It was exactly 8 p.m.

I drove home.

The house was brightly lit and warm. The aroma of food filled the air.

I opened the door. The living room was back to normal. No more plastic. No more bloodstains. No more Richard.

Clara, wearing a glamorous red dress, was setting the table. Mia was sitting watching cartoons, a doll in her hands instead of a gun.

“Welcome home, Arthur,” Clara ran up and kissed me passionately. “Happy 10th anniversary.”

I hugged her. Her body was warm and soft. But I knew, beneath that skin was a monster. And that monster was now living inside me.

I came home early. But I wish I had come home late. I wish I could have remained forever the one who came later, the one blindly happy in this perfect lie.

Because now, I know the truth. And I have to live with it for the rest of my life.