“Brooke?” He said my name with disgust. “She’s probably too busy being the understanding wife. She loves it. She’ll wear that green dress I bought her because she always does what I expect.”
The dress was an accessory. Our wedding was a show. I forced myself to leave before they saw me, my heart frozen in my chest.
The phone rang. It was Chase. “Hi, beautiful,” he said in a warm, sweet voice. “You’re wearing a green dress, right?”
“Of course,” I heard myself say, in an unfamiliar voice.
“Perfect. I have a big surprise planned after the announcement. Something that will change our lives forever.”
“I can’t wait,” I replied. And for the first time, I was serious.
The next few days were a silent hell of discoveries. I followed him. On Tuesday, their usual day, I saw him having an intimate lunch with Leah at a French restaurant where, according to him, he never managed to get a reservation. I watched as he helped her put on her coat, his hands resting on her shoulders with the same tenderness he once reserved for me.
The final piece of the puzzle came from my best friend, Nina, the only person who knew my secret. For weeks, she had kept the terrible truth hidden.
“I saw them, Brooke,” she confessed, tears streaming down her face. “Three weeks ago. At Cartier. He was buying her an engagement ring.”
An engagement ring. When he was still my husband, when he slept in our bed. His audacity took my breath away. That night, I waited until he was asleep and did something I should have done months ago. I accessed our joint bank accounts, accounts he didn’t know I could control. And there it was: fifty thousand dollars, systematically transferred over the past year into an account in his name alone. He was saving for a new life with Leah. The irony almost made me laugh. He was stealing what he thought was his money, unaware that every cent of it came from my inheritance. He was siphoning funds from the Hawthorne empire without even knowing it existed.
Thirty-six hours. That’s how long I had before the opening. I spent the day in the office of the family lawyer, Harrison Blackstone, signing documents that would block some anonymous investments, particularly those flowing into Blackwood Industries. Harrison, who had been my father’s lawyer for thirty years, understood that time was of the essence.
At six o’clock on the afternoon of the opening, I found myself in front of the mirror, buttoning my emerald dress. The fabric felt like armor. My hands were steady as I applied lipstick, darker than usual. The transformation was complete. I wasn’t walking into that ballroom like Chase.
The naive wife. I was walking in like Brooke Hawthorne, ready to take back power in the most public way possible.
The ballroom was a sea of Silicon Valley elites and wealthy New Yorkers. Investors, board members, journalists—all there to celebrate Blackwood’s triumph. I made my way through the crowd, accepting the congratulations with a perfectly calibrated smile. “She’s lucky to have such a supportive partner,” said the wife of a board member.
“More than you’d imagine,” I replied.
