Chapter 22
He wore navy.
He looked tired enough to seem human.
The anchor asked, “Did you accuse your wife of stalking you at a gala held in a hotel she owned?”
His face twitched.
“It’s more complicated than a viral clip.”
Of course it was.
For men like Chase, truth is always “more complicated” when simplicity convicts them.
The anchor then asked about the donor funds.
Chase said he could not comment.
The internet commented for him.
Meanwhile, I did not go on television.
I did not post a statement in Notes app font.
I did not cry into a camera.
I let the documents speak because documents are the only witnesses rich men forget to charm.
Still, silence has a cost.
My marriage played on strangers’ phones while I stood in my closet deciding which version of myself could survive court. Women I barely knew sent messages filled with heart emojis and curiosity disguised as concern. Men who had once ignored me at dinners suddenly asked whether I was “taking meetings.” A luxury magazine requested a profile on “the new face of female asset power.”
I declined.
Pain becomes entertainment quickly if you dress well enough.
On the eighth day after the gala, Chase came to the townhouse.
He arrived at 9:11 p.m. in the rain, without warning.
I knew because the security system alerted me before the bell rang.
Julian was there.
We had been reviewing a revised complaint in the library. Nothing romantic. Nothing improper. But Chase, seeing him through the glass when I opened the inner door, smiled as if God had handed him a weapon.
“Of course,” he said.
I stayed behind the threshold.
“You need to contact my attorney.”
“I need to speak to my wife.”
“I’m not available.”
His eyes moved past me to Julian.
“You always wanted her.”
Julian stood but did not approach.
“Chase,” he said, “leave before this becomes useful.”
Chase laughed. Rain darkened his coat. His hair was wet, making him look younger and more dangerous.
“You think you know her? You think she’ll love you? Evelyn doesn’t love. She acquires.”
A year ago, that would have wounded me.
Tonight, it bored me.
“You’re trespassing,” I said.
His face shifted.
“This is my home.”
“No,” I said. “This is the Hartwell townhouse. You signed a marital occupancy acknowledgment before renovation.”
He stared.
Another document he had not read.
“You cold bitch.”