Page 37 of Guilty as Sin

“Have a good night,” he says gruffly.

Before I can think of a coherent reply, he’s gone.

Chapter 17

Cora

That manipulative asshole. I should’ve seen it coming, but instead I fell for his dirty tricks once again. I’m nearly weeping tears of frustration by the time I make it back to my bedroom. I toss and turn for hours, thinking of Brady with only a wall between us, how easy it would be to give in to my temptation.

But when all else fails, my stubborn streak does not.

I must drift off at some point, because when I wake up, there’s late morning sun streaming into my gray and white room. When I pad out into the main living area, I find a note on the breakfast table, a thick cotton card embossed with the O’Sullivan Holding Company logo.

Out for the day. Don’t do anything fucking stupid. -Brady.

I rip up the card, which is more difficult than expected given the quality of the stock. It only makes me angrier, and now I’m fully awake without coffee. Grumbling obscenities, I help myself to breakfast in the kitchen, a banana from the hook on the counter and Icelandic yogurt from the well-stocked fridge. I amuse myself by imagining Brady watching me eat my makeshift breakfast.

If he were here, I’d take my time with the banana. See how he fucking likes getting teased.

After a call with Lucy to confirm that everything’s going well at the clinic, I take a shower using the toiletries I snagged from the hotel. Beneath the scalding water, I calculate my next move. If I’m going to beat Brady at his own game, then I’ll need to be prepared, which means well-informed.

And Brady and his family are no longer my only enemies.

I decide on an indirect approach. The best way to outflank my husband will be to prove that I’m better than he is at what he does. What we both do, now that I’m back in this manipulative world. Hair towel-dried and laptop in hand, I settle myself on a living room couch, the one that overlooks the city.

Then I begin my research.

Mortimer Vanleusen the Seventh exists in his own stratosphere of wealth. But regardless of how untouchable he is, he’s the bastard responsible for getting my husband stabbed. Granted, I’d very much like to stab my husband myself, but it’s the principle of the matter. Seven made a move that cannot go unpunished.

Unfortunately, the man is a media darling. I’ll admit that he’s classically handsome, but he isn’t sexy in the way Brady so frustratingly is. But the fact that he’s good-looking and well-named and rich means he’s the subject of countless tabloid articles.

I scroll through the most recent ones. In the pictures of him on various Chicago sidewalks, he’s typically dressed in expensive-looking grunge wear, and he always has a rail-thin blonde with him, a different one each time. A fake-chested one catches my eye in a photo from a few weeks ago. I zoom in on her face.

“Why, hello, Serena.”

Possibly our clinic’s wealthiest client, Serena Perkins is one of those women who calls everyone darling unironically. I performed her LASIK procedure about a month ago, and ever since then she’s been pestering me to give her an eyelid lift, despite the fact I only do that procedure when medically necessary. Serena’s would be purely cosmetic. But that hasn’t stopped her from continually upping her offered price and inviting me out to lunch with her at her exclusive club, like I could be swayed by such a bribe.

I glance at my laptop’s clock. Almost noon. It wouldn’t be a violation of patient confidentiality, merely accepting a new friend’s proffered hand. And besides, it’s necessary.

Brady was stabbed last night. There needs to be retaliation. The very thought makes the viper in my chest raise her head in readiness. I’m a mafia wife, but I’m not about to accept sitting on the sidelines like Charlotte and our mother.

Seven Vanleusen brought violence into my household. I do not intend to let him get away with it.

I tap through my contacts and call Serena Perkins. As soon as she picks up, my brain switches into doctor mode.

“Hi, Ms. Perkins,” I say in my patient-soothing voice, “this is Dr. Greene from Thornton Eye Clinic, how are you?”

Dr. Thornton, aka Jennifer, had wanted to name our practice the Thornton-Greene Eye Clinic, but I persuaded her to let me remain behind the scenes, with no name on the building or photo on the website. Yet another element of privacy I’ve had to forsake, thanks to the O’Sullivans’ publicity team feeding a wedding photo of me and Brady to the public.

And that public includes a certain Serena Perkins.

“Samantha, you scamp!” she says in delight. “Or should I say Cora? I almost died of shock when I read about your wedding. My dear friend Samantha, plain as day, referred to as Cora Muloney in the article—and as she got married to an O’Sullivan, no less. And where was my invitation, by the way?”

I grit my teeth. I’ve never liked Serena’s informality in our doctor-patient relationship—never calling me Dr. Greene and treating me like a bestie rather than her surgeon. But right now it’s to my advantage.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” I say, almost gagging on the word. “It was such a whirlwind romance, and then the wedding itself was so quick we weren’t able to invite anyone really. But I am sorry that⁠—”

“A whirlwind romance,” Serena interrupts me with a dreamy sigh. “Not to worry, I forgive you, even though I still say you’re a scamp for keeping your secret identity from me. I thought we were close!”