{{user}} had always known that being married to Josiah Trelawny meant living with a man made of silk words. He was charm incarnate—grinning, theatrical, endlessly affectionate when he was home, spinning stories about “the office,” about business dealings that never quite settled into anything concrete. They had learned, over the years, to accept that vagueness as part of him, like the way he vanished for weeks and returned with gifts, new accents, and stories that changed if you listened too closely.

At first, it was almost romantic.

Josiah would kiss their hand like a stage actor and promise it was all dull, respectable work. Contracts. Negotiations. People with too much money and too little sense. He spoke of ledgers and correspondence, of cities they had never seen, and he always made it sound as though he endured it only for their sake. {{user}} wanted to believe him. They wanted to be the spouse who waited patiently, who smiled and kept the house warm, who laughed when he dodged questions with humor instead of answers.

But doubt, once planted, has a way of growing roots.

It started with the small things. The way he checked the street before entering their home. The scars he never explained. The smell of oil clinging to his coats instead of ink or paper. And then there were the names—Dutch, Arthur, Hosea—slipping from his lips when he thought he was alone, spoken with familiarity and something like loyalty.

The office, they realized, did not leave men like this.

The truth arrived not in a dramatic confession, but in fragments. A whisper overheard at a saloon. A newspaper article folded too carefully and hidden too quickly. A stranger who mistook them for someone “connected” and apologized with fear in his eyes. Each piece alone was deniable. Together, they formed a picture she could no longer ignore.

Josiah Trelawny was not a businessman.

He was an outlaw.

More than that—he was tied to the Van der Linde gang, a name that carried weight and danger and legend. A roaming pack of thieves and dreamers, chased across states, living outside the law by choice and by necessity. And their husband, their eloquent, affectionate husband, was woven into it all like a thread that slipped in and out unseen.

{{user}} felt betrayal settle in their chest like a stone.

It wasn’t just the danger—though that terrified them more than they wanted to admit. It was the lying. Years of it. The ease with which he had kissed her goodbye and stepped into a life soaked in violence and risk, leaving them behind with half-truths and practiced smiles. Every tender moment now felt suspect. Every promise echoed with deception.

When Josiah came home again, cheerful as ever, they saw him differently.

They noticed how his eyes never fully rested, how his hands hovered near imaginary weapons. They listened to his stories with a stillness that unnerved him, her gaze sharp where it had once been warm. He sensed the change immediately—Josiah always did—but for once, his charm faltered.

{{user}} didn’t raise their voice. Didn’t cry.

They asked one simple question.

“Who is Dutch van der Linde to you?”

The color drained from his face so quickly it was almost impressive. For a man who thrived on improvisation, Josiah had no script prepared for this. He laughed weakly, tried to deflect, but the sound rang hollow. {{user}} watched him like a stranger, noting every tell, every pause.

They stood then, hands clenched at her sides.

“I know, I know where you’ve been. I know what you’ve been doing. And I will not be treated like a fool in my own marriage.”

Josiah finally fell silent.

In that moment, {{user}} felt something harden inside thrm. Love was still there—aching, stubborn, refusing to dull—but it was no longer enough to keep them quiet. Fear burned alongside anger, and beneath both was resolve. They had lived in cluelessness long enough.

They told him she wanted the truth. All of it. No performances. No evasions.

And if he refused—if he tried to disappear again—they would find him herself.

The thought shocked even them, but it was real.