Chapter 9

~CLAIRE’S POV~

We were savoring the most perfectly prepared lobster I had ever tasted when my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

‘Saw the engagement announcement. Congratulations on the publicity stunt.’

I showed Alexander the message. "It's Richard."

His jaw tightened slightly, but he kept his voice calm. "What are you going to say?"

I typed back: ‘Thank you. Alexander and I are very happy.’

The response was immediate: ‘Of course you are. Still the same Claire, aren't you? Can't be alone for five minutes without latching onto someone new.’

My champagne suddenly tasted bitter.

Even now, even after everything I had achieved, he still saw me as the pathetic, clingy woman he had divorced.

‘I am having lunch with my fiancé. Is there a point to this conversation?’

‘Just curious how long this one will last before you suffocate him too. Or is this all just an elaborate attempt to get my attention? Still as pathetic as ever.’

The words hit exactly where he had intended them to.

For a moment, I was back in that hospital bed, signing divorce papers while he told me I disgusted him.

Alexander reached across the table and covered my hand with his. "Don't let him get to you. He's lashing out because he's threatened."

‘You made your choice, Richard. Live with it.’

‘I did. Best decision I ever made. Monica and I saw the announcement this morning - we had a good laugh about it. She sends her congratulations, by the way.’

The casual cruelty of it took my breath away.

They had laughed at my engagement announcement. Laughed at what should have been one of the happiest moments of my life.

‘How thoughtful of her.’

‘Stop embarrassing yourself, Claire. This desperate bid for attention isn't fooling anyone. We all know you're still the same clingy, obsessed woman I divorced.’

‘The fancy clothes and new boyfriend don't change who you are underneath.’

I stared at the message, my hands trembling slightly.

He was trying to destroy the confidence I had spent a year building, trying to reduce me back to the broken woman who had signed those papers.

But I wasn't that woman anymore.

‘Enjoy your lunch, Richard. Give Monica my regards.’

I turned off my phone and slipped it into my purse.

"What did he say?" Alexander asked.

"Nothing that mattered." I lifted my champagne glass, surprised to find my hand steady. "He thinks this is all about him. That I'm still the same desperate woman who couldn't live without his approval."

"And how does that make you feel?"

I considered the question seriously. A year ago, Richard's words would have shattered me. They would have sent me spiraling into self-doubt and shame.

Now? Now they just made me angry.

"It makes me want to prove him wrong in the most spectacular way possible."

Alexander's smile was pure predator. "Now you're talking my language."

As if summoned by my restored stubbornness, Monica herself walked into Le Bernardin with her usual entourage of society wives.

She was wearing a pale pink Chanel suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, her blonde hair in a perfect chignon, diamonds glittering at her throat and ears.

She looked exactly like what she was: Richard Blackwood's wealthy, beautiful wife. The woman who had won.

Until she saw me.

I watched the exact moment Monica spotted our table. Her step faltered almost unnoticeably, her perfectly glossed lips parting slightly.

Her eyes went from my face to Alexander's, then to our joined hands, and finally to the massive sapphire engagement ring that caught the light like captured starfire.

Our eyes met across the restaurant, and I smiled. Not the shy, uncertain smile of the woman she had betrayed.

This was the smile of someone who held all the cards and knew exactly how to play them.

Monica recovered quickly—I had to give her credit for that. She lifted her chin, tightened her grip on her Hermès bag, and continued to her table with her usual swan-like grace.

But I had seen the tinge of tension in her eyes. The tiny crack in her perfect facade.

"She's scared," I murmured to Alexander.

"She should be."

Monica's table was positioned so that she had no choice but to see us throughout her lunch.

I made sure to laugh frequently, to lean into Alexander's touch, to give off the kind of happiness that came from being genuinely adored.

Everything I had never had with Richard.

Within minutes, I could see Monica's calm beginning to fray. She kept glancing at our table, her smile becoming more forced with each look.

Her friends noticed too—I could see them exchanging silent glances, sensing the tension their queen bee was trying to hide.

"This is better than the theater," Alexander murmured.

"Act three hasn't even started yet."

As we prepared to leave, I stood and walked slowly past Monica's table. Not close enough to seem intentional, but close enough that she couldn't ignore me.

"Monica," I said warmly, as if running into an old friend. "How lovely to see you."

She looked up, her smile sharp as cut glass. "Claire. I heard about your... engagement. Congratulations."

"Thank you. It's so wonderful to be with someone who truly appreciates me." I let my gaze drift meaningfully to where Richard would normally be sitting if this were one of their usual lunches.

"Where's Richard today?"

"Working, of course. Some of us married men who prioritize our responsibilities."

The barb was perfectly delivered, but I just smiled wider. "How fortunate for you. Alexander always makes time for the things that matter to him."

I turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Monica? That I*******m post this morning was so sweet. Though you might want to be careful about protesting too much—people might get the wrong idea."

I walked away before she could respond, leaving her speechless at her table while her friends tried to pretend they hadn't heard every word.

Alexander was waiting by the door, his eyes dark with admiration. "That was brutal."

"That was just the opening move."

As our car pulled away from Le Bernardin, my phone buzzed with notifications.

The photos from lunch were already making the rounds on social media, and the comments were everything I'd hoped for:

‘Claire looks STUNNING’

‘That's how you do a revenge glow-up’

‘Alexander Hayes is so fine it should be illegal’

‘Monica looked PRESSED at that restaurant’

‘Did y'all see Claire walk past Monica's table? ICONIC’

But the best notification was a text from David: ‘Just got off the phone with Richard. He's losing his mind. Well done.’

I leaned back against the leather seat, feeling more satisfied than I had in over a year. Richard thought I was still the same pathetic woman he had divorced.

Monica thought she was untouchable in her perfect little world.

They were both about to learn how wrong they were.

"So," Alexander said, his hand finding mine, "what's next in your master plan?"

I smiled, watching Manhattan blur past the window. "Next, we make them realize that ignoring me was their biggest mistake."

"And how exactly do we do that?"

"By making it impossible for them to ignore me." I turned to face him, my smile turning wicked. "It's time to remind New York society exactly who Claire Winfred is. And this time, I'm not disappearing."

The game was just beginning. And I intended to win.

As we pulled up to my penthouse, Marcus was waiting in the lobby with an expression I had never seen before—concerned, almost worried.

"Miss Winfred," he said as we entered, "you have a visitor.

"I didn't schedule any appointments."

"No, miss. She's been waiting for over an hour. She said it was urgent."

He led us to the living room, where a woman I had never seen before sat perched on the edge of my sofa.

She was probably in her fifties, elegantly dressed but with worry lines etched around her eyes.

"Miss Winfred?" She stood as I entered. "My name is Patricia Sterling. I need to talk to you about Monica."

The name hit me like ice water. Sterling. Monica's maiden name.

"I'm her mother," the woman continued, "and I think you're in danger."