Chapter 3
The word "divorce" died on my lips, cut short by a jarring, unfamiliar ringtone.
Liam snatched his phone from the marble vanity like it was a live grenade. He didn't even glance at me before bolting into the hallway. "Emergency. Chicago investors."
I stood frozen, watching his reflection disappear. A cold smirk touched my lips.
Impeccable timing.
I stepped out of the bathroom. The study door was cracked open just a sliver.
Through the gap, I saw him pacing. His voice was a hushed, frantic whisper. That wasn't the posture of a CEO soothing nervous capital; that was a man explaining to a mistress why he hadn't picked up for three hours.
"Mom!"
Noah was perched on the sofa, clutching his tablet like a shield. "We should go to the zoo tomorrow! See the penguins! Dad should come too!"
Distraction tactics. First the earrings, now the family outing. He was throwing up a smokescreen to cover his father's retreat. The lie sat on his face with terrifying familiarity—he looked exactly like Liam.
I crouched down, forcing him to look me in the eye. "Sweetheart, do you really love Mommy?"
Noah hesitated for a fraction of a second before launching himself into my arms. "Of course! I love you the most!"
A perfect performance.
I held his small, warm body, but my chest felt hollow.
The child I had nursed and worshipped had become a dagger, sharpened by his father and aimed right at my heart.
"Mom?" He pulled back, scanning my face. "Are you okay?"
Before I could answer, Liam emerged from the study, slapping his forehead in theatrical frustration.
"Unbelievable," he groaned. "I completely forgot I have a session with Marcus tonight."
He checked his watch, performing for an audience of two. "If I cancel this late, I get charged the full rate. Plus, Dr. Evans was clear about my blood pressure—I have to keep the cardio up."
I blinked. Five minutes ago, it was a "Chicago investor emergency." Now it was a private trainer? He wasn't even trying to keep the lies straight anymore.
It was nine o'clock on a Sunday. No trainer worth their salt booked high-intensity sessions this late.
My gaze dropped to his left hand. He was unconsciously twisting his wedding band—his tell.
"Yeah! Marcus is super strict!" Noah chirped, jumping in too quickly. "Remember he texted you last time you missed?"
The teamwork was seamless.
Liam was already changing into his gym gear, grabbing his car keys. He pecked my cheek—dry, hurried contact. "I should be back by eleven. Don't wait up."
"Shower there," I said, my voice flat as he turned toward the door. "I don't want the bed smelling like sweat."
His spine stiffened. "Obviously."
The heavy front door clicked shut, sealing the house in silence. I looked around the foyer—the vaulted ceilings, the curated art. I couldn't breathe this air for another second.
I turned to Noah. "Honey, Grandma isn't feeling well. I'm going to go stay with her for a few days. Do you want to come?"
Noah shook his head immediately. "No way. Grandma's house is boring. Plus, I have that math quiz on Tuesday."
"Alright." I smoothed his hair. "You be good. I'm going to pack a bag."
I walked up the stairs, making sure my footsteps were heavy and audible. Once on the landing, I slipped off my heels and crept back down, stopping just out of sight.
The sound of hushed cheering drifted from the living room.
"Dad, coast is clear! Mom's going to Grandma's! She's packing right now... so you don't have to rush back."
A pause. Liam was saying something on the other end that made Noah bounce on the cushions.
"Really? The Lego set from Simone is awesome! When can I see her again? She promised to take me to the flagship store for my birthday!"
Simone.
The name landed like a physical blow. That woman hadn't just stolen my husband; she had bought my son's loyalty with plastic bricks.
I took a deep breath and ascended the stairs for real this time.
In the master bedroom, I opened the closet.
My eyes snagged on Liam's favorite Tom Ford suit—the charcoal one I'd bought him for his promotion. The breast pocket was bulging slightly, ruining the silhouette.
I reached in. My fingers brushed against something silky.
I pulled it out. A bra. Red lace. La Perla, classic collection, 34D.
It was doused in a cloying cherry perfume. I turned it over. Monogrammed on the inner tag: S.B.
This wasn't a mistake. You don't accidentally leave your mistress's lingerie in your suit pocket.
This was her trophy.
I didn't cry. Crying is for victims.
I snapped photos of the bra, the monogram, and the suit. I placed the lace underwear in a Ziploc bag, sealing it tight. A quick check of the Amex app confirmed it: La Perla Chicago, $1,247, six days ago.
Twenty minutes later, I left a note on the kitchen island: [At Mom's. Pizza money on the counter.]
I didn't go to my mother's. The Uber took me straight to the Four Seasons.
"Checking in," I told the receptionist, sliding a credit card across the marble counter. It was a card I hadn't used in seven years.
"Name?"
"Evelyn Sterling." My maiden name tasted like cool water after a drought. "Just one guest."
Up in the suite, staring out at the glittering Chicago skyline, I felt a lightness I hadn't known existed. The bedsheets were crisp, and for the first time in a decade, I wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop.
At 11:15 PM, my phone buzzed. Liam.
[Hey babe. Already missing you. How's your mom? Just finished squats, legs are jelly.]
I stared at the screen. I imagined him and Simone in our bed, laughing at the gullible wife.
I didn't reply. I just swiped the notification away and set the phone face down.
Sleep tight, Liam. The nightmare is just starting.
The next morning at ten sharp, I sat across from Maeve Rivera. She was the kind of divorce attorney who didn't just win cases; she eviscerated the opposition.
She adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, scrolling through the iPad I'd handed her. The surveillance screenshots, the audio recordings, the photo of the red bra, the credit card statements.
"With this volume of evidence," Maeve said, her red lips curving into a victory smile, "we can trigger the infidelity clause in your prenup. You're looking at sixty percent of marital assets, including the lake house and his equity in the firm."
"And Noah," I added. My voice only shook when I said his name.
"Given that he introduced a mistress to a minor child and encouraged the child to lie? You have a stranglehold on primary custody."
"Take him for everything," I said, turning to watch the city traffic below. "It's not about the money. It's about the principle."
Three days later, the company-wide blast for the annual gala hit my inbox. As a fifteen-percent shareholder, I made the VIP list by default.
But the "Special Guest" line felt like a slap in the face: Simone Brown, Rising Star in Jewelry Design, debuting her "Rebirth" Collection.
Jewelry design.
That was the dream I'd sacrificed to build Liam's empire. The career I'd shelved to play the dutiful wife and mother. Now, he wasn't just sleeping with another woman; he had stolen the life I gave up, gilded it, and draped it over his mistress to brand her a "visionary."
My cursor hovered over the RSVP button. [Will you be attending?]
I didn't click yes or no. I just killed the tab.
If they wanted to put on a show about dreams, fine. I'd make sure they got a spectacle they'd never forget.
On the afternoon of the gala, I booked a private courier. I handed the driver a pristine Tiffany-blue box, tied with a flawless white satin ribbon.
Destination: The Peninsula Hotel, Grand Ballroom, Backstage.
Recipient: Liam Vance.
To anyone watching, it looked like an expensive congratulatory gesture. Maybe a peace offering from a supportive wife.
But as I watched the car pull away, the corner of my mouth twitched into a cold, sharp smile.
There were no diamonds inside that box.
It was a detonator, primed to blow his perfect little image straight to hell.
