Peel Your Own Damn Shrimp

I was scrolling through the monthly procurement approvals when a single line of text made my finger freeze on the mousepad.

Premium white shrimp, 5 lbs. Weekly delivery, Fridays.

The delivery address wasnt the corporate office. It wasnt our house, either.

I stared at the unfamiliar street name for ten solid seconds.

The Belvedere, Tower 3, Apt 1702.

In the margins, the requisition note contained four simple words:

CEOs Private Order.

I had been married to Brad Harrison for eight years, and I had never heard of The Belvedere. But I knew exactly who the CEO was.

It was my husband.

1.

Most people didnt know that Harrison Seafood was an empire I had built with my own two hands.

Eight years ago, I quit my secure job at the marine research institute. I took my life savings of $200,000, combined it with a $300,000 loan from my father, and leased a two-thousand-square-foot cold storage unit on the East End. That was the birth of our wholesale seafood business.

Why call it Harrison Seafood?

Because Brad told me it was easier to do business under a mans name.

"Youre a woman. If youre out there running the markets, riding the delivery trucks, negotiating with the dock bosses, they arent going to take you seriously."

That was his exact phrasing. At the time, I thought he had a point.

The company was registered in his name. Legal representative: Bradley Harrison.

He went out and played the role. As the "CEO," he schmoozed at high-end steakhouses, drank single malt scotch, and handed out thick, embossed business cards.

Meanwhile, as the "CEOs wife," I was standing on the freezing docks at three in the morning, inspecting the catch.

Year one, we pulled in $800,000 in revenue.

Year two, $3 million.

Year three, we moved into a new processing plant ten times the size of our original unit.

Year five, we locked down the largest restaurant chain supply contract in the tri-state area.

Year eight, our annual revenue hit $32 million.

Every single one of those dollars was negotiated by me, fish by fish, crate by crate.

My name was the point of contact on every major vendor contract.

I knew the birthdays of every single big-ticket client.

The precise temperature of the deep freeze, the sizing metric for the prawns, the logistics routing, the shift schedules of the processing floorit all lived exclusively in my head.

And Brad?

He signed the papers. Because he was the legal representative.

"Jo, did that afternoon shipment clear?"

"It did." Carol walked into my office, hugging a clipboard to her chest. "The Grand Mariner Hotel is breathing down our necks. They need it for their Friday night banquet."

Carol was a company veteran. Shed been my right hand for six years.

She called me Jo. Not Mrs. Harrison. Not the CEO's wife.

In this entire building, only outsiders called Brad "The Boss." Internally, everyone knew who really kept the lights on. My last name was Mercer, and the staff knew exactly who they answered to.

"Alright, Ill keep an eye on it," I said.

I looked back down at the procurement system on my monitor. And there it was again.

Premium white shrimp, 5 lbs. Every Friday.

Delivery: The Belvedere, Tower 3, Apt 1702.

Note: CEOs Private Order.

I clicked into the archive and pulled up the historical data.

Every Friday. For three consecutive years.

One hundred and fifty-six weeks.

Seven hundred and eighty pounds of shrimp.

I read the number twice.

"Carol."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know where The Belvedere is?"

"That new luxury high-rise up on the North Shore? Yeah, it's gorgeous. Extremely exclusive." She paused, studying my face. "Why?"

"Nothing."

I closed the procurement window and grabbed my car keys off the desk.

"Keep an eye on the afternoon logistics for me. I need to step out."

2.

I didn't drive straight to The Belvedere.

First, I walked across the lot to the security room next to the main warehouse.

I logged into the server and pulled up the archived photos from the companys monthly dinners spanning the last three months.

Harrison Seafood had a tradition: at the end of every month, the company footed the bill for a massive seafood dinner at one of our partner restaurants.

I rarely went. I was always too busy.

While they were at a corner table drinking wine, I was usually sitting on a crate outside the deep freeze, eating a stale sandwich. But the HR and Admin teams always took photos and dumped them into the company Slack channel. I never looked at them.

Today, I clicked through them. One by one.

Photo one.

A long banquet table. Two dozen people. Glasses raised.

Brad sat at the head of the table.

Sitting immediately to his right was a young woman. Long hair, a white dress, a blindingly sweet smile.

I knew her. Madison Foster.

She had come to the company eight years ago as a college intern. She eventually got hired full-time. Her current title was "Director of Administration."

I clicked next.

Photo two.

Brad, looking down. In front of him sat a massive plate of prawns.

He was peeling them.

The shelled shrimp were being placed delicately onto Madisons plate.

Photo three.

Madison, tilting her head, smiling softly. She held a piece of shrimp with her chopsticks, her eyes locked on Brad.

Brad was smiling back.

I kept scrolling backward in time.

Last month.

The month before that.

Three months ago.

Six months ago.

Every single company dinner. Every single photo.

He was peeling shrimp for her.

Peeling them, lining them up perfectly, and placing them on her porcelain plate. She would smile. He would smile.

I closed the photo viewer.

A memory floated to the surface. During our first year of marriage, we went out to dinner, and I asked Brad to help me shell my shrimp.

I have a mild contact allergy to the protein in crustacean shellsif my bare hands touch the raw edges, I break out in painful hives. The meat itself is perfectly fine for me to eat, but the shelling process is a nightmare.

What had been his reaction?

Hed scoffed. "You don't know how to peel them yourself? Grow up, Jo."

Then he pulled the entire platter to his side of the table and ate them all himself.

Since that day, I never asked him to peel a single shrimp for me.

Eight years.

He hadn't peeled one for me in eight years. He found it too much of a hassle.

But he had peeled them for Madison. For eight years.

Every company dinner. Every single piece.

Peeled, pristine, and placed on her plate.

I stared at the image of him looking down at his hands, shelling the seafood. He looked so meticulous. So unbelievably tender.

He had never once looked at me like that.

"Carol," I said into my phone.

"I'm here."

"What is Madisons monthly salary?"

"Eighteen thousand," Carol replied, her voice tinged with a sudden caution. "She's the Director of Administration, so..."

"Director of Administration," I repeated flatly. "What are her actual office hours?"

Silence hung on the line.

"Tell me the truth, Carol."

"...She rolls in around ten, leaves by four. Sometimes she doesn't show up at all."

"Who approves her timesheets?"

"Mr. Harrison."

"Okay."

I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the linoleum.

"I have what I need."

3.

I didn't do anything impulsive.

I drove to The Belvedere. To the address that received five pounds of premium white shrimp every Friday.

It was one of the most affluent residential complexes on the North Shore. I parked across the street and sat in my car for an hour, the engine purring quietly, the silence pressing against my eardrums.

Then, I pulled out my phone and logged into the state's property tax database. I ran a search on Tower 3, Apt 1702.

Nothing came up under his name.

So, I opened Brads mobile banking app. I was the one who had set his password years ago, and he had never bothered to change it. He was too arrogant to think Id ever snoop.

The transaction history was infinitely long. I scrolled, page by tedious page.

On the third page, I found the thread.

Mortgage Payment The Belvedere 3-1702 $8,600.

Eight thousand, six hundred dollars a month.

For three years.

Thirty-six months.

$309,600.

I took a slow, deep breath, letting the icy air condition chill my lungs. I kept scrolling.

Soon, another hit.

North Shore Auto Group Final Payment 0-082,000.

Scroll.

Cartier $38,000.

Saks Fifth Avenue $27,500.

Zelle Transfer Madison Foster 0-00,000.

Zelle Transfer Madison Foster 0-00,000.

Zelle Transfer Madison Foster 0-05,000.

Every single month. A fixed allowance.

I pulled three years' worth of bank statements. I added the personal transfers, the mortgage, the car, the luxury shopping. I punched each number into my calculator application, one by agonizing one.

When the blinking cursor finally settled, it rested on a single figure.

$2,310,000.

And that was just from his personal checking account.

That didn't include the "CEOs Private Orders" in the corporate procurement system.

That didn't include whatever he had run through the companys expense accounts.

That night, Brad came home at eleven.

He smelled of expensive bourbon.

"Had drinks with a client," he muttered, kicking off his Italian loafers in the foyer.

"Mhm."

"Make sure you keep an eye on that shipment tomorrow."

"Mhm."

He went upstairs to shower. I sat on the living room sofa, staring at the empty space he had just occupied.

Eight years.

I was at the docks at three in the morning.

He was buying another woman real estate.

I was sleeping on a makeshift desk outside the industrial freezer.

He was peeling shrimp for another woman.

I worked until I herniated two discs in my lumbar spine.

He was coddling another woman so she wouldn't have to work a full day.

I built an entire empire from the ground up.

He was carving it into pieces and feeding it to a parasite.

I didn't cry. There was no point. Tears wouldn't reimburse me.

4.

For the next three days, I acted completely normal.

During the day, I went to the office, approved the invoices, and monitored the supply lines. At night, I went home and cooked dinner.

But in the shadows, I was digging.

I used Brads credentials to log into the administrative backend of the companys Slack network. I had super-admin privileges. He didn't know that.

I read his direct messages. Line by line. Scrolling all the way down to the very beginning.

Eight years ago.

Madison: Hi Mr. Harrison! Im the new intern, Madison. Looking forward to learning from you!

Brad: Welcome to the team. If theres anything you dont understand, my door is always open.

That was the year Madison was a senior in college.

That was the year Brad and I had been married for exactly six months.

Six months.

I scrolled forward. Her third month as an intern.

Brad: Dinner tonight? A new sushi place just opened up near the office.

Madison: I'd love to, Boss! But I don't know how to shell the seafood lol.

Brad: Ill peel them for you.

Ill peel them for you.

Five words. He had never once said them to me.

I kept scrolling. Month five.

Brad: Your internship is up soon. Don't you want to stay?

Madison: I really do! But theres no headcount for a full-time role.

Brad: Let me talk to HR.

The very next day, Madison was brought on full-time.

I pulled up the old approval logs from that year. I had signed off on her full-time offer. My signature was right there in black and blue. I had even written a note in the margins: Stellar performance during internship. Approved.

A dry, hollow laugh clawed its way out of my throat.

Eight years ago, I had personally signed the paperwork to hire her.

Eight years ago, she was eating sushi with my husband.

Six months.

Which meantwhen I was standing at the altar in my white dress, exchanging vows with Brad, he was already peeling her shrimp. While I was unpacking our wedding gifts, he was taking another woman out for Japanese food.

Eight years.

This wasn't a recent mid-life crisis. This wasn't a "momentary lapse in judgment."

It was from the very beginning. From day one until year eight.

Over one thousand, four hundred pieces of shrimp.

And I hadn't tasted a single one.

5.

Brad had no idea I had already downloaded his entire banking history. All eight years of it.

But the bank statements were only a fraction of the bloodletting. The real hemorrhage was inside the company.

I spent an entire week quietly auditing all of Harrison Seafood's financials.

The "CEOs Private Orders" in the procurement system? It wasnt just shrimp. Over the course of eight years, it was imported Japanese melons, A5 Wagyu beef, truffles, and cases of Bordeaux.

Every single item was expensed through corporate procurement, and every single delivery address was The Belvedere, Tower 3, Apt 1702.

Total cost of the private procurement orders over the last three years: $430,000.

Then came the expense reports.

I had never scrutinized Madisons corporate card statements before. I did now.

Travel and lodging. For a Director of Administration, her travel standards were astronomical: presidential suites at five-star hotels.

I cross-referenced every single one of her business trips with Brads travel itinerary.

A perfect match. Every single time.

She went on "business trips," and he went on "business trips."

She booked the luxury suites, and his company card never showed a hotel charge.

Because they were sleeping in the same bed.

Travel, flights, per diems, and "entertainment" expensesover three years, Madison had expensed $860,000 to the company. All of it signed and approved by Brad.

His signature was all it took. Because he was the legal representative.

But the final discovery was the deepest cut.

Equity.

I found it buried in the state corporate registry filings. One year ago.

Brad had transferred 30% of the company's shares to Madison Foster.

The transfer price? One dollar.

One single dollar.

Our company was valued at a conservative $20 million. Thirty percent was $6 million.

He sold it to her for a dollar.

And I never knew. Nobody told me.