Chapter 6

~CLAIRE'S POV~

New York looked the same, but I felt like I was seeing it through someone else's eyes. Someone braver.

Someone who knew her worth.

The black Bentley glided through Manhattan traffic, and I pressed my face against the cool window like a kid, watching the familiar streets blur past.

A year ago, I had left this place with mascara-stained cheeks and a suitcase held together with duct tape.

Now I was coming back in designer everything, engaged to a billionaire, and sporting the kind of confidence that came from a year of intensive therapy and way too much retail therapy.

"We are here, Miss," my driver announced as we pulled up to the Trump International.

The doorman who rushed to open my door was the same guy who used to pretend I was invisible when I had walked past this building in my Target clearance outfits.

Back then, I had been crying my way to and from Richard's lawyer meetings, looking like a walking disaster.

His uniform was still the same gold-braided situation, his smile still professionally perfect.

But this time, he saw me.

"Welcome to Trump International," he said, and I could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes as he took in my coat and the way I carried myself.

"May I help with your luggage?"

I stepped out, my Louboutin heels clicking against the pavement in what I had been practicing as my "confident woman" walk.

Not the old Claire shuffle of shame.

"That would be great, thanks."

Old me would have thanked him seventeen times and worried about whether I was tipping enough. New me just smiled and let him do his job.

Growth, right?

As he gave a sign for help with my luggage, I had a moment of pure, petty satisfaction.

This was the same hotel where Richard had once said I "couldn't afford" to eat dinner.

Where I had walked past a million times, nose pressed against the glass like some kind of luxury window shopping addict.

Well, guess who just bought the penthouse, Richard?

Money did not buy happiness—Dr. Zimmerman had drilled that into my head.

But it bought something almost as good: the power to make your ex-husband's jaw drop.

The penthouse was ridiculous in the best way possible.

Floor-to-ceiling windows that made me feel like I was living inside a jewelry box, overlooking all of Manhattan like some kind of glamorous spy movie.

The décor was all clean lines and neutral tones that whispered "expensive" without being tacky about it.

But honestly? The view was what sold me.

I walked to the windows facing east and nearly laughed out loud. There, rising like some kind of glass and steel monument to masculine ego, was the Blackwood Industries building.

From this angle, I could see straight into the executive floors.

Including Richard's corner office.

"This is either perfect or completely psychotic," I murmured, accepting the champagne Marcus handed me while he supervised the unpacking.

"Mr. Blackwood typically works late on Wednesdays," Marcus said, checking his tablet. "If our research is correct, he should be at his desk soon."

Research.

Such a nice word for what was high-end stalking. But honestly, Richard had lost the right to privacy when he had handed me divorce papers in a hospital bed.

I opened the leather case containing my new favorite toy—military-grade binoculars that could probably spot a wedding ring from three miles away.

Because this is what my life had become.

"Should I order dinner?" Marcus asked.

"Not yet." I was already adjusting the focus, bringing Richard's building into sharp detail.

"I have some... observation to do first."

*********************

Twenty-three minutes later, there he was.

Richard Blackwood in all his stupid, gorgeous glory, settling behind that massive desk with the same cold arrogance that used to make my heart do backflips.

Even through high-powered lenses, even after everything, he was still the most beautiful man I had ever laid eyes on.

His dark hair was longer than he used to wear it, and he kept running his fingers through it…..his old stress tell.

Those sea-blue eyes that could go from warm to freezing in seconds.

The jawline I used to trace with my fingertips when we had lain in bed on Sunday mornings.

For a second—just a horrible, traitorous second—my heart did that old familiar squeeze.

The part of me that a year of therapy couldn't completely kill whispered that I still loved this man.

That all the designer clothes and revenge plotting couldn't change that.

Then I watched him laugh at something on his phone, and reality crashed back in.

Probably a text from Monica.

His wife.

The woman who had stolen my entire life and was probably sharing some inside joke about how pathetic his ex-wife used to be.

The woman who was sleeping in my bed, wearing my ring, living my life.

I touched the sapphire on my finger—Alexander's ring. Heavy and beautiful and worth more than Richard's car.

It reminded me why I was here.

Not to get him back. To make him sorry he had let me go.

There was a difference, and it mattered. Even if my stupid heart was having trouble remembering that.

My first public appearance had to be flawless.

The Whitmore Gallery opening was Manhattan's social event of the week, which meant everyone who mattered would be there to spread the gossip about my return.

I chose the midnight blue silk dress that made my skin look like I was lit from within.

My hair was in an elegant updo that showed off the diamond earrings Alexander had given me—the ones that cost more than most people's rent.

Old Claire had worn costume jewelry and department store dresses to events like this, always feeling like everyone could tell I didn't belong.

New Claire looked like she was born for this world.

Because maybe I was.

"Miss Winfred?" The gallery director approached with the kind of reverent smile usually reserved for people who write big checks.

"Welcome back to New York. We're thrilled you're here."

"Thank you, James. The collection is stunning." I accepted champagne from a passing waiter, noticing how conversations paused when I walked by.

Mission accomplished.

"Congratulations are in order, I hear," James said, his eyes dropping to my engagement ring. "Alexander Hayes is a lucky man."

"I am the lucky one," I said, playing the part of the blissful bride-to-be. "Alexander is... incredible."

My phone buzzed. Alexander: How's the observation mission going, darling?

I typed back: Stage one complete. The whispers have officially begun.

And they had. I could feel eyes on me, hear the excited murmurs as people slowly realized who I was.

The transformation was so complete it took them a minute, but eventually it clicked: Claire Blackwood…Claire Winfred now….was back.

And she looked nothing like the broken woman who had fled the city in shame.

"Is that... Claire Blackwood?" someone whispered behind me.

"Winfred now," her friend corrected. "Engaged to that British billionaire. Alexander Hayes."

"She looks amazing. What happened to her?"

What happened was I had learned the difference between loving someone and losing yourself in them.

What happened was I had discovered that heartbreak could either destroy you or forge you into something stronger.

But I just smiled and moved through the crowd like I owned the place. Which, thanks to Alexander's art investments, I kind of did.

The next morning, I stood in my marble bathroom applying lipstick while Marcus gave me the daily spying report.

Which was my life now.

"Mrs. Sterling was seen arguing with her husband outside Balthazar last night," he reported. "Witnesses say she seemed upset about something she had heard at the gallery."

Monica had heard about my return. Good. Let her sweat a little.

"And Richard?"

"Worked until nearly midnight again. Third time this week his assistant ordered dinner to the office."

I capped my lipstick and studied my reflection. The woman looking back was polished and powerful and completely in control.

But for just a moment, I wondered if Richard was working late to avoid going home to Monica, or if he just preferred his office to his marriage.

Old Claire would have built detailed fantasies about his unhappiness and secret longing for what we had lost.

New Claire understood it didn't matter what he felt.

What mattered was what I could make him feel.

"The real estate agent is expecting us at ten," Marcus continued. "The Fifth Avenue penthouse has everything you wanted—security, privacy, and a price tag that'll make the newspapers."

"Perfect. And the shareholder meeting?"

"Tomorrow at two. Alexander's proxy papers are ready. Mr. Blackwood has no idea you'll be there representing Hayes International."

I smiled at my reflection, practicing the expression I planned to use when I saw Richard again.

Not the desperate, hopeful smile of the woman who had begged him not to leave.

The confident, knowing smile of someone who held all the cards.

"He's about to get the shock of his life."

*************************

By evening, I was standing on my new terrace with a glass of wine, looking directly across the city at Richard's office.

I could see him at his desk, a tiny figure bent over paperwork in the golden rectangle of his window.

Through the binoculars, I could make out the stress lines around his eyes, the way he kept checking his phone, that restless energy that used to drive him to pace around our apartment.

Was he thinking about the whispers that had probably reached him by now?

Was he wondering if they were true—if his pathetic ex-wife had come back transformed into someone he barely recognized?

My phone rang. Alexander, right on schedule.

"How does it feel to be back in the lion's den?" he asked.

I watched Richard lean back in his chair and rub his temples—another old stress habit I used to try to massage away.

"Terrifying and exhilarating," I admitted, because honesty was one of my new things. "Like I'm about to jump out of a plane."

"And our friend across the way?"

"Has no idea what's coming." I took a sip of wine that cost more than Richard's weekly grocery budget. "When do we make our move?"

"Tomorrow. You'll attend the Blackwood Industries shareholder meeting as my representative. He doesn't know you're back, but he's about to find out in the most public way possible."

Through the binoculars, I watched Richard stand and walk to his window.

For one heart-stopping moment, it looked like he was staring directly at me across the glittering city.

But of course, he couldn't see me.

I was hidden in plain sight.

"It's time to remind Richard Blackwood what he threw away," I said.

After I hung up, Richard was still at his window.

Old Claire would have worried about him working too hard, would have wanted to call and make sure he was eating enough, sleeping enough, taking care of himself.

New Claire noted that exhausted men made poor decisions.

And I was counting on Richard to make several very poor decisions in the coming weeks.

"Sweet dreams, Richard," I whispered to the city lights, pulling the curtains closed on my perfect view.

"Tomorrow, you'll remember my name."

But not the way you used to say it….with dismissal, with that casual cruelty reserved for things you couldn't wait to throw away.

Tomorrow, when you see what I've become, you'll say my name like it matters.

And maybe, if I were being completely honest with myself in the dark of my new penthouse, you would say it the way you used to. Back when you loved me.

Before I find out if I can go through with this revenge, or if seeing you again will remind me that some hearts never really learn how to stop loving, no matter how much they should.