BEN POV

I am Ben, a spy at the gallery sent by Jennifer's monstrous husband, rotting in jail.

The excessively rich scent of fresh coffee and expensive oil paint hung in the air of Jennifer’s art gallery office. For me, it had become the smell of my double life. I tapped away at the gallery’s social media schedule; my screen was a mysterious deception for the real work I was doing. That was it. The real gold.

As I walked to the dark walls of the prison, I felt a sudden sharp pain of painful emotion—of guilt. She was a good boss, kind and fair. But loyalty, for me, had a price, and it was being paid from a prison commissionary account.

Later, as the team dug into the delicacy, Jennifer laughed at something- full, throaty laugh that made her seem ten years younger. I discreetly took a photo of the scene: Jennifer, flushed and happy, raising a glass of sparkling water in a toast. The perfect visual evidence.

Then I finally arrived at the penitentiary, a grim, grey complex that always made my skin crawl. The visits, strictly monitored, were always the same. I was listed as a "spiritual advisor," a fiction Stanley had made up that somehow held up.

Stanley sat behind the thick glass, his large frame still imposing even in the horrible prison jumpsuit. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on me.

“Report,” Stanley said, his voice a low gravel through the phone receiver.

I leaned forward. “There’s a development. She’s… seeing someone.”

Stanley’s jaw tightened almost immediately. “Go on.”

“She was different today. She bought the whole office lunch from Bistro Central.” I paused for a while, letting the lack of interest or excitement in detail set the stage. “I was talking about last night. Some man took her to ‘Le Ciel.’”

The name of the restaurant landed like a physical blow. A vein in his temple throbbed. “Le Ciel,” he repeated, the words a venomous whisper. “With my money. She’s spending my money on some… some parasite.”

“She was happy, Stanley,” I added, twisting the knife as instructed. “Really happy. Laughing, smiling. The whole office saw it.”

Stanley’s face underwent a terrifying transformation. The cold control shattered, replaced by a raw, unfiltered fury. My eyes bulged, and he leaned so close to the glass that his breath fogged it.

“Happy?” he snarled, his voice dropping to a feral growl. “She’s laughing? While I rot in this cage?” He slammed his fist against the table on his side. The sound was not loud but violent. A guard nearby took a step forward, watching him closely.

“She thinks she can just move on? Erase me?” He spat at his side of the glass. “That gallery… that life… it’s MINE. She is MINE.”

He was breathing in ragged gasps, the phone cord straining in his grip. For a moment, I thought he could see the ghost of the man who had orchestrated complex frauds, the man whose temper was legendary. This was worse.

“You find out who he is,” Stanley hissed, his voice trembling with rage. “You get me a name. A face. Everything.”

“I will,” I said calmly.

Stanley’s eyes glazed over, looking past me into some dark, vengeful future of his own imagining. “Let her laugh,” he whispered, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “Let her enjoy her fancy dinners. Her time is running out. And when I get out of here… I’m going to take everything from her. Everything.”

He slammed the phone back into its cradle before I could respond, standing up so abruptly that his chair shifted backward. He didn't look back as the guards escorted him away, his shoulders set in a line of pure, murderous intent.

I sat for a moment longer in the sterile quiet of the visiting room. I could still smell the faint, cheerful aroma of Luigi’s garlic bread on my jacket. I thought of Jennifer’s bright, trusting smile. Then I thought of Stanley’s promise, echoing in the cold silence. I stood up, straightened my tie, and walked out, leaving the storm of Stanley’s rage contained behind layers of concrete and steel, for now. The art gallery would be peaceful tomorrow, but I knew he was now feeding a monster, and monsters, eventually, always get fed.

As this event had turned out to be a trauma for me, I reduced my pace as I tried to remember my first encounter with Stanley and then with Jennifer.

My mind flashed back to that fateful day. The air in the visiting room that day was a stale cocktail of antiseptic and despair. My hands were still shaking from the withdrawal symptoms I could barely keep at bay as I sat across from Stanley Morgan.

Stanley, in his prison white uniform, looked more like a CEO in a minimalist office than a convict serving a long term for fraud and embezzlement. He had said to me, "Jennifer," the name a soft poison on his tongue. "My ex-wife. She has all my money. My life's work."

I just nodded; my throat was too dry to speak. I was here because Stanley’s lawyer had found me, a drowning man clutching at the one straw offered: a job, a purpose, a way out of the gutter I’d fallen into after my own life crumbled.

"She's running it into the ground, Ben," Stanley continued, his voice a low, confident hum. "Or she's hiding something. My money. She had established a gallery which I owned because it is my money. I need to know what's happening. The books, the client lists, her personal correspondence… everything.”

He slid a folded piece of paper across the table. It was a job listing for the "Gallery" – Jennifer had published it on the Internet. The position was for an "Office Administrator & IT Support for a San Francisco Art Gallery."

"I can't get a job like this," I answered, gesturing to his shabby appearance.

Stanley smiled, a thin, bloodless line. "You can. Because you're not Ben the recovering addict. You're Benjamin Clarke. You have a clean, if somewhat sparse, CV that I've created for you. You have a reference from a reputable, albeit now-defunct, tech firm in another state. You are quiet, eager, and you have a newfound passion for the administrative side of the art world."

The plan was audacious. Insane. But the number Stanley mentioned, the monthly salary and the bonus for "useful information" was a siren song I couldn't ignore.