Chapter 3

The estate’s iron gates closed slowly in my rearview mirror.

I didn’t go straight to Audrey’s office.

First, I parked in the underground garage of a department store and called her.

I wasn’t trying to stage an escape.

For the first time, I simply needed to be certain that a conversation was truly mine to have.

After hearing me out, Audrey asked me to come to her Midtown office.

She had never done business for the Bellandis.

She knew my mother. She had known me before I was married.

The draft divorce agreement lay open on her desk again.

This time, there was a checklist beside it.

“The marriage, your personal assets, your son, and any formal positions you hold on behalf of the family need to be handled separately.”

I looked at her.

“Even the events and charitable committees?”

“If your name is still on the paperwork, we need to understand what that means.”

For years, I had managed the Bellandis’ charitable foundation, assistance for members’ families, and some of their public events.

I wasn’t the family’s bookkeeper. I had never been involved in its illicit businesses.

But plenty of people had agreed to walk through the Bellandis’ doors because they had met me first.

The wives, the sick parents, the families who had lost someone—they all had my number.

Adrian called it women’s business.

Audrey wrote down every item.

“You can resign. You can arrange a handover. But don’t sign anything you don’t understand, and don’t admit to something you didn’t do just to keep him happy.”

I nodded.

“Where are you planning to go next?” she asked.

I had no answer.

For six years, my schedule had revolved around other people.

Ethan’s training.

Adrian’s dinners.

My mother-in-law’s follow-up appointments.

Which relatives needed somewhere to stay before a council meeting.

Not one entry had belonged solely to Claire Bennett.

After leaving the office, I went to Central Park.

Sitting on a bench, I scrolled through my old contacts and sent Vivian a message.

“It’s been a long time. I’m thinking about returning to work. Would you have time to offer some advice?”

Almost as soon as I sent it, I wanted to take it back.

Six years without a word, and here I was asking for help.

My phone rang less than five minutes later.

“Claire?”

Her voice was as brisk and clear as I remembered.

“It’s me.”

“I tried to reach you last year. Are you no longer using your old work email?”

I blinked.

That account had been forgotten on an old phone long ago.

“I’m sorry. I—”

“You don’t need to explain. First, tell me this. Do you still want to work in restructuring?”

I watched someone pushing a stroller along the path.

“Yes.”

The word hurt as it left my mouth.

“Then come talk to me. I have a West Coast project that needs someone experienced to handle the initial assessment.”

My grip tightened around the phone.

“You know who my husband is.”

“I do.”

“I don’t want to cause you trouble.”

She paused.

“Claire, my firm doesn’t work for the Bellandis. Our clients don’t rely on your husband’s connections. Whether there’s a place for you here depends on your work, not on who you married.”

I lowered my head.

It felt as though someone had cracked open a window in a room that had been shut for years.

“I’ve been out for six years.”

“Then you have some catching up to do. That doesn’t mean you should disqualify yourself before we start.”

After the call, she sent me a set of anonymized materials.

On the third page, something caught my attention.

The company’s revenue was growing, but its cash kept shrinking.

Several easily overlooked service costs appeared across different contracts.

I opened the notes app on my phone and began listing questions.

Halfway through, Adrian called.

I answered.

“Where are you?”

“Out.”

“Marco says your car isn’t in the garage. You haven’t been to any of your usual places.”

I looked at the screen.

He had already checked.

“I don’t need to report every place I park.”

Silence.

Then his voice dropped.

“Be home before seven. Don’t make me look for you in front of people.”

I hung up.

A message followed immediately.

“Claire. That wasn’t a suggestion.”

I silenced my phone and went back to the documents.

Toward evening, I had a burger and bought a new lipstick.

When I reached the estate at seven thirty, several unfamiliar cars were parked outside the entrance.

The bodyguard who opened the door looked distinctly uneasy.

Vanessa was sitting in my usual place in the living room.

Ethan sat beside her, looking at his phone.

Adrian occupied another chair.

Three men with long-standing ties to the family held drinks.

Not long before, I had helped one of their wives arrange a place for her mother to recuperate.

He was the first to stand.

“Mrs. Bellandi.”

The other two rose after him.

Vanessa’s smile faltered.

Then she came toward me with her wineglass in hand.

“Happy birthday, Claire. I bought a cake so we could make up for yesterday.”

A sliced chocolate mousse cake sat on the table.

Less than half remained.

“We meant to wait, but Ethan couldn’t resist.”

Ethan didn’t look up.

“I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Looking at the cake, I suddenly remembered him at seven.

He had insisted on making my birthday dessert himself. It had burned, but he’d guarded the plate and refused to let anyone touch it.

“Mom hasn’t blown out her candle yet.”

Some losses didn’t happen all at once.

Today was simply the day I stopped explaining them away.

“Thank you. I’ll pass.”

Vanessa’s smile stiffened.

“Isn’t chocolate your favorite?”

“It’s Ethan’s.”

She glanced instinctively at Adrian.

He frowned.

“She’s trying to do something nice.”

I said nothing and started toward the stairs.

Vanessa called after me.

“Are you still upset about yesterday? I honestly didn’t know it was your birthday. Adrian said the two of you had been having some little disagreements.”

I turned.

“Last night, you asked whether I had anything special planned.”

She blinked.

“I didn’t answer,” I said. “But today, you had a birthday cake ready.”

Every conversation in the room stopped.

She lowered her eyes.

“Adrian told me afterward. I only wanted to make you happy.”

“Next time, ask whether I want it first.”

Adrian stood.

“That’s enough, Claire.”

He hadn’t raised his voice.

The men in the living room still put down their glasses.

They knew that signal.

Once, I would have stopped immediately, too.

Tonight, I looked at him and stayed where I was.

“Vanessa is here as a guest of the Rinaldi family,” he said slowly.

“Then entertain her as the head of the Bellandis,” I said. “Don’t tell everyone this is strictly family business while she sits in my place and makes plans for my son.”

Vanessa paled.

One of the older men glanced at her chair before looking away.

None of them dared to challenge Adrian on my behalf.

But they couldn’t pretend they didn’t understand what that seat meant.

Adrian came toward me and lowered his voice.

“Go upstairs. We’ll talk later.”

I looked at him.

“All right.”

He seemed to relax.

Then I added, “Not because you ordered me to. Because I don’t want to be part of this dinner.”

I went upstairs.

This time, I didn’t apologize to the guests or smooth things over for him.

Once I closed the bedroom door, I heard low voices downstairs.

Not long afterward, they left for the private club the family used.

Ethan soon posted an update.

In the photo, he sat beside a card table with a nonalcoholic drink in front of him.

The caption read:

“Finally getting treated like a man tonight. #NoBabysitter”

I stared at it for a long time.

Adrian had promised me he wouldn’t bring Ethan into those settings too young.

All Vanessa had to say was that boys needed to learn early, and the promise no longer mattered.

At ten forty, she sent me a message.

“Adrian’s had too much to drink. I had someone get him a room upstairs at the club. 308. You can come get him if you’re worried.”

Then came a photo of the nightstand.

Beside the key card lay condoms.

I saved the messages and the photo and sent them to Audrey.

Then I replied.

“In ten years, he’s never remembered to bring me a glass of water after he’s been drinking. Thanks for looking after him tonight.”

The typing indicator appeared.

It stayed there for a long time.

I sent another message.

“Next time, you don’t need to position the key card quite so carefully. I can tell you wanted me to read it.”

She didn’t reply.

I closed the conversation and reopened Vivian’s documents.

Before midnight, I sent her three pages of analysis.

She wrote back:

“See you Wednesday. Claire, you’re better than you think.”

That night, I didn’t go to the club.

I didn’t call to demand an explanation.

And I didn’t ask anyone to bring my husband home.

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