Quietly, I slip out of bed. The sheets are a thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton, so smooth they feel like water, but they’ve always felt cold to me, even in summer. My bare feet make no sound on the thick Persian rug, another priceless antique that Bitsy loves to point out. I don’t turn on a light,navigating the opulent bedroom by the faint morning glow. The light filters through the massive windows, painting everything in shades of silver and grey, making the expensive furniture look like tombstones. Every object in this room, from the ornate vanity to the chaise lounge in the corner, was chosen by Bitsy to reflect the Darlington status. Nothing in it is mine.
My first stop is Preston’s dressing room, a walk-in bigger than my first apartment. The air inside smells of cedar, leather, and his expensive cologne. It’s the scent of him, of his world, and I realize with a start that I hate it. He’s methodical, predictable. His suits are arranged by color, his shirts by season. I find the jacket from the dinner party two weeks ago, the one he wore when he came home late, smelling of a perfume that wasn’t mine. I’d dismissed it then, too tired to fight, too numb to care. Now, I care.
I run my fingers along the collar of the expensive silk shirt he wore with it. And there it is. A faint, almost invisible smear of pinkish-red. Not my shade. I never wear pink. It’s the kind of careless mistake a man who believes he’s invincible makes. A man who thinks his wife is too stupid or too cowed to notice. I don’t need it for evidence, not really. The screenshots are my bombshells. This is just for me. A final, concrete confirmation. I take a photo of it with my phone, just because I can.
The sound of the shower starting in the ensuite bathroom jolts me. Preston is awake. My heart hammers as I slip out of his dressing room and silently leave the bedroom. I hear him humming tunelessly over the sound of running water. He has no idea what’s coming.
I move quickly through our wing of the estate, down the hall toward Preston’s study. The house is still silent — his parents’ section is on the opposite side of the grand entrance, far enough away that I don’t have to worry about running into Bitsy during her morning routine. I pad silently into Preston’s study. Thisis his sanctuary, the one room even Bitsy wasn’t allowed to decorate. It’s a shrine to his own ego, all dark wood, leather, and the faint scent of his cologne. The books on the shelves are all leather-bound classics, but I know for a fact he’s never read a single one. They are props, just like me.
My hands are shaking again, but this time with purpose, not fear. I turn on the small green banker’s lamp on his desk, the pool of light creating an island of intimacy in the large, cold room. I start with the drawers, pulling them open with painstaking care. The first one is full of meaningless papers. Old membership cards for country clubs we rarely visit. Receipts for extravagant gifts for his parents.
My next target is the stack of papers next to his laptop. Invoices, reports, and… yes. A credit card statement. Not his personal card, but the corporate one. The one he uses for business expenses.
I scan the pages, my eyes moving quickly. There are the usual expenses: lavish client dinners, flights to London, a subscription to the Wall Street Journal. And then I see it. Regular charges from The Plaza Hotel. Every Tuesday.
He didn’t even try to hide it. The sheer arrogance of it takes my breath away. He believed so completely in my submission, in my carefully constructed role as the clueless wife, that he didn’t even bother to cover his tracks.
I take photos of every page of the statement. I find a folder labeled “Post-Nup Agreement - Draft” and photograph that, too. The terms are insulting, leaving me with a fraction of what I’m entitled to after six years of marriage, of supporting his career, of running this mausoleum of a house while he was cheating on me.
Our original prenup was one-sided, as you’d expect from the Darlingtons — if I cheated, I’d walk away with nothing more than the clothes on my back. But the lawyer Prestoninsisted I hire to review it had been smart. She’d amended it to add that if Preston cheated and I could prove it, I’d walk away with a substantial sum. I’d signed without hesitation because I didn’t care much for money and never intended to cheat on Preston. But this post-nup? That amended infidelity clause is conveniently absent. He wanted to strip away my only protection and lock me in tighter before I discovered what he was doing.
He was right about one thing. I have been a decorative asset. But assets have a way of turning into liabilities when you least expect it.
The final piece of the puzzle is Hot Ass. I pull up the screenshots on my phone, reading through the text exchange again. My eyes catch on those three words she wrote:Don’t underestimate her.
She was warning Preston about me. Or was she? The more I think about it, the stranger it seems. If she’s truly Preston’s loyal assistant, why would she push back at all? Why not just agree with him, stroke his ego the way everyone else does? And the way she phrased it — not as a question, but as a statement. Almost like… a challenge.
Then there’s the way she collected evidence on Merica. She’s clearly smart, strategic. Someone who can play a long game. Someone who can pretend to be one thing while being something else entirely.
It’s a risk. A huge one. She could screenshot my message and send it straight to Preston. But if I’m right, if there’s even a chance that she’s not completely in his corner… I have to know.
My heart hammers as I type out the words, my thumb hovering over send. This could blow up in my face. But doing nothing guarantees I stay trapped. I press send.
We need to talk. It’s about Preston.
My breath catches in my throat. The three dots appear, then disappear. Appear again. Finally.
Hot Ass: Who is this?
Short. Cautious. Exactly what I expected. I type the two words that will change everything.
His wife.
The pause is longer this time. I can almost feel her weighing her options. Then, her tone shifts completely.
Hot Ass: Oh, this just got interesting. Seventh Street Café, Garden City. Know it?
My heart leaps. It’s a small, out-of-the-way place I know well.
Yes.
Hot Ass: 10 AM tomorrow. Saturday. Don’t be late. So looking forward to this.
I stare at my phone, a smile touching my lips for the first time today.
I hear the front door close. Preston, leaving for his morning golf game, right on schedule. He’ll be gone for hours. My time is up in this house, but my window of opportunity is wide open. I put everything back exactly as I found it, turn off the lamp, and slip out of the study.
Now, the next phase of the operation begins. Escape.
