Chapter 7 - THE PENTHOUSE ENCOUNTERBy 7:00 PM that evening, the snow had begun to fall over Manhattan, dusting the sleek skyscrapers with a delicate layer of white frost.
I was sitting in my favorite velvet armchair in our Park Avenue living room, sipping chamomile tea, when the front door security chime chimed. A moment later, the heavy oak door unlocked and swung open.
Lila Camden walked into the foyer.
She wasn't wearing her elegant camel coat anymore. Instead, she wore an oversized puffer jacket, her hair damp from the melting snow, her face pale and exhausted. Her rounded stomach was clearly visible beneath her coat. She looked frightened, desperate, and entirely out of her depth.
She stopped in the hallway when she saw me sitting calmly by the window.
“Where is he?” Lila demanded, her voice shaking slightly as she clutched her handbag against her stomach like a shield. “Grant isn't answering his phone. His office security card was deactivated this afternoon. When I went to the Chelsea apartment, the locks had been changed by a court-appointed receiver.”
I took a slow sip of my tea, set the cup down on the glass side table, and looked at her. There was no anger in me—only a cold, clinical curiosity.
“Grant is currently down at the precinct sorting out his financial disclosures, or perhaps packing his things from his father’s summer house,” I replied evenly. “As for the Chelsea apartment, Lila? That property was purchased using funds fraudulently diverted from my marital estate. Under New York law, it’s subject to immediate judicial seizure and liquidation.”
Lila’s eyes widened in sudden, sharp panic. She took a step forward, her voice rising in pitch. “You can’t do that! That’s where I live! That’s where my baby is going to grow up! Grant promised me—he swore to me that you wouldn't find out, that his money was safe, that he would take care of us!”
I stood up slowly, smoothing the fabric of my dress, and walked toward her. I stopped two feet away, looking down at her with a calm, unyielding gaze.
“Lila,” I said softly. “Rule number one of dating a corporate litigator: never trust a man who underestimates his wife. And rule number two?” I paused, smiling faintly. “Never assume that a man who lies to his wife won't lie to his mistress.”
Lila stared at me, the full weight of her catastrophic miscalculation finally crashing down on her. The handsome, wealthy, powerful corporate partner she thought she had stolen hadn't just lost his job—he was completely, legally bankrupt, facing criminal investigation for wire fraud and fraudulent conveyance, and stripped of every penny he had promised her.
“What am I going to do?” she whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes, tracking down her cheeks.
May you like
“I suggest,” I said, turning my back on her and walking back toward the window overlooking the snowy Manhattan streets, “that you find a very good family lawyer. Because when the courts finish auditing Grant’s accounts, they’re going to be coming after every single gift, every rent payment, and every luxury item he bought you with my money.”
She stood there in the foyer for a moment longer, trembling in the cold draft from the open door, before she turned, pulled the door open, and fled into the snowy night.
