Chapter 3

The next morning, I met my attorney at a discreet café in Tribeca—far from the Upper East Side circles where whispers traveled faster than the stock ticker.

Chloe Morgan was already waiting when I arrived. Sleek blonde bob, charcoal Armani suit, the kind of ice-cold composure that had made her the most feared divorce lawyer in Manhattan. We'd been roommates at Columbia Law before I dropped out to marry Alexander. She'd never forgiven him for that.

I slid my phone across the marble table. She scrolled through the photos in silence—her expression shifting from curiosity to shock to something that looked a lot like rage.

"Jesus Christ, Victoria." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Seven years? He's been drugging you for seven years?"

"Every single night." I kept my voice flat. Clinical. If I let myself feel it, I'd shatter. "And my parents knew. They recommended the doctor. They introduced him to Natalie in the first place."

Chloe's hand found mine across the table, her grip fierce. "We're going to bury him. Every last one of them."

I pulled a folder from my bag—copies of everything I'd photographed the night before. "There's more. I found financial irregularities in his records. Shell companies. Unexplained transfers. I need you to dig deeper."

She took the folder, her eyes already scanning the first page. "Give me forty-eight hours."

True to her word, she called two days later.

"The legal grounds for divorce are solid," she said. "But I found something bigger. Much bigger."

I gripped the phone tighter. "Tell me."

"Millions in wire transfers routed through offshore accounts, all disguised as consulting fees to Sterling Wellness Center. Your husband has been funneling company money—and your family's trust fund—to set up his mistress. But here's the interesting part." She paused. "Your parents co-signed the authorization. They've been complicit from the beginning, Victoria. This wasn't just about keeping you childless. This was about control. About making sure any Hartwell heir came from a bloodline they could manipulate."

The room tilted. I pressed my palm flat against the wall to steady myself.

"There's something else," Chloe continued. "I tracked down some photographs. Evidence of just how deep this goes."

We met again that evening. Chloe spread a stack of photos across her kitchen island, and I picked through them with trembling fingers.

Then I saw it.

A Christmas dinner. My parents—Richard and Eleanor Chen—seated at a lavishly decorated table with Alexander, Natalie, and Ethan. The boy was opening a present, my father beaming at him with an expression of pure adoration. My mother had her arm around Natalie like they were old friends.

I remembered that Christmas. They'd told me they couldn't make it to our holiday party—something about a last-minute trip to Aspen. I'd spent the evening alone in our penthouse, watching It's a Wonderful Life and telling myself it didn't matter.

They'd been forty blocks away, celebrating with my husband's other family.

The tears came before I could stop them.

"Victoria." Chloe's voice was gentle. "I know this hurts. But we can use all of it. When we're done, they won't have a reputation left to hide behind."

I wiped my eyes. "I need to get inside Natalie's office. There has to be more."

"That's incredibly risky—"

"I don't care." My voice came out harder than I intended. "She's been playing the perfect mistress while I played the perfect wife. I want to know everything."

It took a week to arrange, but I managed to bribe the office manager at Sterling Wellness Center into giving me a temporary ID badge. A visiting consultant, she'd tell anyone who asked. Just reviewing some files.

The employee changing room smelled like antiseptic and cheap air freshener. I pulled on the gray scrubs, tucked my hair under a surgical cap, and slipped on a pair of plain black-framed glasses. In the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

Good.

Natalie's private office was on the third floor. I walked with purpose—head down, clipboard in hand—until I reached the door marked Dr. N. Sterling, Director.

The moment I stepped inside, my stomach dropped.

Everything in this room had been chosen with care—my mother's taste in the artwork, my father's eye for antique furniture. They'd helped her decorate. They'd made her comfortable in the life she'd stolen from me.

On the desk sat a silver frame. Natalie in a white dress, Alexander in a tailored gray suit, standing before the altar of a Gothic chapel. My parents flanked them, smiling like proud in-laws. Alexander's parents stood on the other side.

They'd had a ceremony. Years ago—probably before our wedding.

I'd been the affair. The legal cover. The disposable wife.

I photographed everything. Then I found what I was really looking for—a drawer full of financial records, patient files with falsified billing, wire transfers to accounts that shouldn't exist.

This wasn't just infidelity. This was fraud. Embezzlement. A conspiracy that reached into both of Manhattan's most powerful families.

I was photographing the last folder when the door swung open.

Natalie stood in the doorway, her green eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. Recognition flickered across her face—even with the disguise, something had given me away.

"Who are you?" Her voice was sharp. "Take off that mask."

My heart slammed against my ribs. My mind scrambled for an escape route.

At that moment, the office manager burst through the door, panic written across his face. "Dr. Sterling! I'm so sorry—this is the new file clerk. She's been fighting a cold all week. I told her to wear a mask so she wouldn't spread it around."

He gripped my arm firmly and steered me toward the service exit. "My apologies, Doctor. I'll have someone else organize your office."

I didn't look back.

The moment we cleared the back entrance, I sucked in a breath of cold air and felt my pulse begin to steady. I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Chloe: Got everything.

Her reply came instantly: Received. Stay careful.

I stood on the corner of 74th Street, staring up at the Sterling Wellness Center sign gleaming in the afternoon light. This fortress built on seven years of lies would soon come crashing down.

And I would be the one to light the fuse.