She leans back in her chair. “So yesterday afternoon, I sent Patricia a password-protected file with a message saying I had evidence related to a potential new client — a wife divorcinga Darlington Investments executive. Just enough to pique her interest. Told her to call me if it was relevant and I’d give her the password.”
Nico takes a sip of her latte. “She called within the hour. Didn’t confirm or deny anything about you, of course — total professional. But she asked for the password, so I knew you’d hired her. I sent it over, she opened the file, and that was that.”
She continues laying out the plan. The timeline for serving Preston with the divorce papers. The strategy to get a court order to freeze his hidden accounts before he can move more money. “First, we serve him at his office. In the middle of a board meeting, if we can time it right. Maximum humiliation. Then, Patricia files an emergency motion to freeze the offshore accounts, using the statements I pulled as primary evidence. He’ll be blindsided.”
She pauses, her eyes searching mine. “You in this, Snow? All the way?”
She finishes and takes a sip of her latte, her dark eyes watching me, waiting. She’s not just giving me a plan. She’s giving me a choice. To crumble, or to fight.
She raises her coffee cup, a silent toast. “Ready to burn his world down?”
For the first time in years, a real, genuine smile spreads across my face. It’s not the practiced, hollow curve of Mrs. Preston Darlington III. It’s the sharp, dangerous, beautiful smile of Snow Holloway.
“Light the match,” I say.
Chapter 4
Preston
Iadjust my Hermès tie and check my Rolex. Another Tuesday morning at Darlington Investments, another day of building the empire my great-grandfather started. The mahogany-paneled corner office reflects my success — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, Italian leather furniture, and a bar cart stocked with twenty-year-old Macallan. The silver-framed wedding photo on my desk shows Snow in her Vera Wang gown, looking exactly as a Darlington bride should: beautiful, elegant, perfect. Everything a man of my stature deserves.
“Good morning, Mr. Darlington,” Nicolette says, gliding into my office with her usual professional efficiency. She’s carrying my morning coffee — black, no sugar, exactly as I like it — and looking impeccable as always in a tailored navy suit that shows off her figure without being inappropriate. Hot Ass, I’ve saved her as in my phone - because let’s be honest, it’s impossible not to notice. She’s been an exemplary assistant for six months now, though I’ve noticed she’s been oddly resistant to my subtleadvances. Most women in her position would be flattered by the attention of a Darlington.
“Morning, Nicolette,” I say, using my most charming smile. “You look lovely today. That color brings out your eyes.”
She gives me a polite, professional smile that doesn’t quite reach those dark eyes. “Thank you, sir. Your nine o’clock is here.”
Interesting. Still playing hard to get. I do enjoy a challenge. “Excellent. Nicolette, could you make reservations at Le Bernardin for tonight? Table for two. Eight o’clock.”
“Of course. Should I call Mrs. Darlington to confirm?”
The question catches me off guard. Why would she assume it’s for Snow? “No, that won’t be necessary. It’s a business dinner.” I give her a meaningful look. “With someone who appreciates fine dining.”
She nods, her expression unchanged. “I’ll take care of it right away.”
As she turns to leave, I can’t help but admire the view. That navy suit fits her perfectly — professional in the front, but from behind? Worth every penny I pay her, and then some. Hot Ass indeed. She has a natural polish that took years to cultivate in Snow. When I met my wife, she was all bohemian charm and unrefined authenticity — beautiful, but rough around the edges. I fell hard for that untouched quality. And I’ve spent six years refining her into the perfect Darlington wife. She’s elegant now, poised, exactly what a woman in her position should be. Nicolette seems to have been born with the kind of sophistication I had to teach Snow.
My phone buzzes with a text from Krystal, my marketing consultant from Miami.
Missing you. When are you coming back?
I glance at the wedding photo on my desk — Snow’s radiant smile frozen in that perfect moment — and turn it face down before responding. I smile and type back a quick response.
Soon, beautiful.
The thing about marriage that women never seem to understand is that it’s a partnership, not a prison. I love Snow — of course, I love her. She’s my wife, the mother of the children we’ll have someday, the perfect hostess for my social obligations. But a man has needs. Physical needs that a delicate flower like Snow couldn’t possibly satisfy. I’m discreet about my other arrangements, careful never to embarrass her publicly. It’s really quite considerate when you think about it.
“Mr. Darlington?” Nicolette’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “There’s someone here to see you. A delivery.”
I glance up to see a young woman in a delivery uniform standing in my doorway, nearly obscured by an enormous bouquet of giant pink and white balloons. And they all say the same thing in sparkly script:It’s a Girl!
Three of them. Three massiveIt’s a Girl!balloons bobbing cheerfully in my office doorway.
For a moment, I’m confused. Then a warm rush of satisfaction floods through me. Snow’s pregnant. She has to be. Why else would she be sending meIt’s a Girl!balloons?
A baby girl. A Darlington daughter. Mother will be thrilled. My chest swells with pride. “Come in, come in!” I’m already standing, beaming, imagining telling the board at lunch that I’m going to be a father. “Nicolette, get your phone out. We should take a picture—”
The woman enters, and I notice she’s not alone. Behind her is a stocky man in an ill-fitting suit, and behindhimis a woman in a sequined dress and a feather boa, followed by two more people wearing party hats. One of them is holding a ukulele.
