The Lie Behind His Perfect Life

From the back cover

For three years, my husband Hudson convinced everyone I was crazy. My parents. Our friends. Even my own therapist.

He said my suspicions were just anxiety. PTSD from our miscarriage. That I needed my medication and a good night's sleep.

But a pink butterfly hair clip in his car told a different story.

It wasn't mine. And we don't have children.

When I confronted him, he sighed with practiced patience—the same sigh he'd perfected over three years of making me doubt my own mind. "It belongs to a client's daughter," he said, reaching for my pills. "Your anxiety is flaring up again."

I almost believed him. I always almost believed him.

But this time, I didn't back down.

I invited his mistress and their three-year-old son to our family dinner.

With the DNA test results in my purse, I was ready to burn his perfect world to the ground.

He thought he could gaslight me forever.

He was wrong.