“She’s so naive. She has no idea what’s really going on.”
My husband’s voice, casual and contemptuous, filtered through the crack in his office door, stopping me in the hallway of Blackwood Industries. I’d come to surprise him before his company’s big launch event, dressed in the emerald gown he’d given me, clutching the notes containing the speech I’d planned for my confession: that I wasn’t just his understanding, middle-class wife, but Brooke Hawthorne, the pharmaceutical heiress who had secretly bankrolled his dreams for six years.
Then came the soft chuckle of his colleague, Leah Morrison. “How much longer are you going to keep having a family with her?”
Through the narrow opening, I could see them on his leather couch. Her manicured fingers traced patterns on his chest as he stroked her hair. Fully clothed, yet in an intimacy that screamed stolen moments. My legs trembled. I pressed myself against the cold wall, and the notes with the dialogue crumbled in my hand. Six years of hiding my inheritance to make sure his love was true, and this was my reward.
“Just until tonight,” my husband, Chase, said, rubbing Leah’s back. “Once I get the financing, I can begin the separation process. The prenuptial agreement I had her sign protects everything I’ve built.”
Everything he’d built with my money. Thanks to the anonymous investments I’d funneled through shell companies three times to save his failing startup. The irony of the situation was bitter.
“What about his family?” Leah asked. “Isn’t he from a rich family or something?”
Chase laughed, and the sound made me sick. “Her grandmother left her her jewelry, which she keeps hidden in a kitchen drawer. She thinks I don’t know anything about it. It’s probably worth a few thousand dollars. The classic taste of champagne for the price of a beer. That’s why I needed a prenuptial agreement.”
In the kitchen drawer, I kept my Cartier watch, my Van Cleef earrings, and my father’s Patek Philippe—items worth more than his company’s quarterly revenue, hidden among mismatched spoons because I wanted him to love me, not Hawthorne’s billions.
“You’re terrible,” Leah said, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice. “What time are we meeting for the premiere?”
“Seven-thirty. I’ll introduce you to the board of directors as our new head of research and development.” I’d been told the position would be filled by a fictional character from Boston.
“And your wife won’t suspect a thing?”
