Chapter 4 - The Lavish Penthouse and the Audacity of a Smug Mistress
Forty-eight hours after giving birth, I was discharged from the hospital.
Daniel Brooks personally walked me and Clara down to the private garage, ensuring that every medical precaution was taken. As he opened the door of Rachel’s armored Range Rover, he held out a crisp, cream business card with his personal cell phone number embossed in silver ink.
“Call me if Clara shows the slightest sign of colic or fever,” Daniel said, his gray eyes lingering on mine with an intensity that made my pulse flutter unexpectedly. “Or call me if you just need someone to remind you that you’re unbreakable.”
“Thank you, Daniel,” I said softly, feeling a rare, genuine blush touch my cheeks. “For everything.”
“The storm has passed, Catherine,” he said with a warm smile. “Now it’s time to clear the wreckage.”
Thirty minutes later, Rachel and I pulled up to the gated entrance of the sprawling 8,000-square-foot estate in Gladwyne, Pennsylvania, that Michael and I had shared for the past five years.
The estate had been purchased entirely through funds distributed from my family trust, though Michael had insisted on putting the title exclusively in his corporate name under the guise of “tax optimization.” He truly believed the house belonged to him.
As the heavy wrought-iron gates swung open, I noticed two luxury sports cars parked in the circular driveway: Michael’s brand-new Aston Martin and a bright red Porsche 911 with temporary dealer tags.
“Look at that,” Rachel scoffed, gripping the steering wheel. “The ink isn't even dry on the fraudulent offshore transfer, and Amber already bought herself a brand-new sports car.”
We parked beside the fountain. Rachel helped me carry Clara in her infant car seat up the grand limestone steps.
I pushed open the heavy mahogany front doors.
The entrance foyer, which I had spent years decorating with priceless antique art and warm, understated elegance, was completely disheveled. Empty champagne bottles littered the console tables. Racks of designer evening dresses from Chanel, Dior, and Saint Laurent were lined up along the grand curved staircase.
And sitting on the white Italian marble floor, trying on pairs of diamond-encrusted Christian Louboutin heels, was Amber Collins.
She was wearing one of my vintage silk robes—a gift from my late mother.
When the front door clicked shut, Amber looked up. Her eyes flashed with momentary surprise before settling into an expression of utter condescension.
“Oh,” Amber said, casually tossing a pair of four-inch stilettos aside. “You’re back already. I thought the hospital would keep you for observation at least until tomorrow.”
I felt the blood in my veins turn to pure liquid nitrogen. “Take that robe off. Right now.”
Amber let out an airy laugh, standing up and tying the silk sash tighter around her slender waist. “Catherine, please. Don't be so dramatic. Michael gave me permission to pick out an outfit for the Vanguard Gala on Friday. Your closet has a few decent vintage pieces, even if most of your wardrobe is dreadfully frumpy.”
Rachel took a menacing step forward, but I raised my hand, stopping her.
“Where is Michael?” I asked, keeping my tone perfectly level.
“He’s in the master study, on a conference call with our London brokers,” Amber replied, walking toward the grand staircase with an arrogant sway in her hips. “You know, real work. Something you wouldn't understand. Honestly, Catherine, you should just pack a couple of suitcases and take the baby to your sister’s apartment. It would save everyone a lot of awkwardness.”
“Is that what Michael told you?” I asked.
“Michael doesn't have to say it,” Amber smirked, leaning against the banister and looking down at me like an empress addressing a beggar. “Look at yourself. You’re thirty-four years old, exhausted, completely dependent on his income, and completely out of touch with his corporate world. Michael is a visionary leader. He needs a partner who elevates his brand, not an anchor dragging him down into domestic boredom.”
The door to the master study opened at the end of the second-floor mezzanine. Michael walked out, holding a glass of twenty-five-year-old Scotch. He looked down at the foyer and frowned.
“Catherine? What are you doing here?” Michael demanded, descending the stairs and stopping beside Amber. “I told you we’d discuss our separation arrangements next week after the Vanguard Gala.”
“Separation arrangements?” I repeated, holding Clara’s car seat securely.
“Let’s be realistic, Catherine,” Michael said, adopting his smoothest corporate tone. “Our marriage has been over for a long time. We’ve grown apart. I’m willing to be generous. I’ll give you the suburban townhouse in Cherry Hill and pay you ten thousand dollars a month in spousal support for the next two years. In exchange, you sign a clean, uncontested divorce waiver and surrender any claim to Apex stock.”
I looked at him, completely astounded by the sheer magnitude of his delusion. “You’re offering me ten thousand a month from a company I funded, while your mistress wears my dead mother’s silk robe in my own foyer?”
“Amber is my Chief of Staff now!” Michael snapped, slamming his glass onto the handrail. “She understands the sacrifices required to build an empire! You just sat back and enjoyed the fruits of my labor! You have until tomorrow morning to sign the preliminary separation agreement, or I’ll have my legal team cut off your credit cards and freeze the joint accounts!”
Amber leaned against Michael’s shoulder, casting me a triumphant, mocking smile. “Listen to your husband, Catherine. Take the townhouse. It’s more than you deserve anyway.”
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw a single object.
I looked at Michael, and then I looked at Amber.
“Keep the robe, Amber,” I said softly. “You’re going to need something warm to wear when you’re standing on the sidewalk with nowhere to sleep.”
Without waiting for their response, I turned to Rachel. “Let’s go, Rachel. We’re staying at the Sterling Penthouse downtown.”
As we walked out into the crisp afternoon air, I heard Michael’s arrogant laughter echoing through the grand foyer behind us.
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He thought he had won. He thought he had successfully discarded his loyal wife and stolen the keys to the kingdom.
He had no idea that forty-eight hours from now, the kingdom was going to fall on his head.
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