For three years, my husband, Nikolai Petrov, worked in Dubai on what he called “the contract that would change our lives.”
In the beginning, I trusted him completely. I mailed packages overseas, rearranged my schedule for the rare video calls, and learned how to carry a marriage on my own without letting anyone see me crack.
By the second year, something shifted. His tone cooled. He stopped asking about my day. When he did speak to me, it felt like he was checking whether I was still agreeable, still convenient. If I admitted I was lonely, he accused me of exaggerating. If I mentioned our missed anniversary, he blamed the time difference. When transfers arrived late or smaller than expected, he blamed “complex expenses.”
So I did the one thing women are often discouraged from doing: I started observing carefully.
My name is Claire Morgan. I’m cautious by nature, but not blind. I reviewed our bank statements. There were restaurant charges on evenings he claimed to be working late. Purchases of gifts I had never seen. A pediatric clinic bill that made no sense. When I confronted him, his reaction felt scripted—too polished, too ready.
By the time he announced he was finally returning home, I had already met with a lawyer twice. Not because I wanted to end the marriage—but because I needed to know what my options were if my suspicions were true.
