Chapter 5 - THE MISTRESS’S DESPERATION
Three weeks after the courtroom confrontation, the autumn leaves in Central Park had turned a deep, fiery red.
Life at the 740 Park Avenue penthouse had transformed completely. The cold, sterile atmosphere Grant had imposed—where every object was placed for corporate display and children were expected to remain unseen in the nursery—was gone.
Caleb and Owen’s laughter echoed through the long, sunlit hallways. The secondary parlor had been converted into a massive art studio, its walls covered in brightly colored finger paintings, dinosaur posters, and the paper stars we had brought with us from the small apartment in Queens.
I sat in the breakfast room, wearing a comfortable cashmere sweater, sipping green tea while reviewing the preliminary Q3 financial reports for the Vane Heritage Group. Under our new management structure, corporate confidence had rebounded dramatically, and the stock had surged twenty-two percent.
A quiet knock sounded at the door, and Thomas, our driver and head of household staff, stepped into the room.
"Mrs. Vane-Whitmore," Thomas said carefully. "There is a young woman downstairs in the lobby demanding to see you. Security stopped her at the turnstiles, but she refuses to leave."
I set my teacup down. "Who is it?"
"Sloane Avery, ma'am."
I paused. I hadn't seen Sloane since the day she was carried out of Courtroom 4B on a stretcher. According to the tabloids, her modeling contracts had been canceled, her socialite memberships revoked, and her luxury apartment—which had been leased through a Whitmore Axis shell company—had been repossessed ten days ago.
"Send her up, Thomas," I said smoothly. "And have Marcus stand nearby in the hallway."
Five minutes later, Sloane Avery stepped into the grand living room.
The polished, arrogant woman who had worn my dead mother's sapphires to court was completely gone. She wore an oversized, unbranded trench coat, flat shoes, and large dark sunglasses meant to hide the dark circles under her eyes. She carried a worn designer handbag that looked like the last valuable object she possessed.
She stopped ten feet away from me, her hands trembling as she pulled off her sunglasses. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen from crying.
"Clara..." Sloane whispered, her voice cracked and desperate.
"It’s Mrs. Vane-Whitmore, Sloane," I corrected her quietly, remaining seated. "What are you doing in my home?"
Sloane took a shaky step forward, then suddenly dropped to her knees right on the silk rug—the exact same posture Grant had assumed three weeks earlier.
"Please..." Sloane sobbed, covering her face with her hands. "Please, you have to help me! I have nowhere else to go! Grant... Grant lied to me about everything!"
I watched her coldly. "Grant didn't force you to wear my mother's earrings to a custody hearing, Sloane. You chose to wear them because you wanted to hurt me."
"He told me you were crazy!" Sloane cried, looking up with frantic, pleading eyes. "He told me you were trying to take his money and ruin his life! He gave me those earrings and told me they belonged to his family! I didn't know they were your mother's! I swear to God, I didn't know!"
"And what do you want from me now?" I asked.
"The federal investigators... they froze my bank accounts too!" Sloane stammered, fresh tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "They said because Grant bought my apartment and my car using diverted corporate funds, everything has to be liquidated! I’m being evicted tomorrow! My agency dropped me, my friends won't answer my calls... I don't even have enough money to pay for a hotel room!"
She reached out, trying to touch the hem of my trousers, but Marcus stepped forward silently from the hallway, his heavy hand resting on his belt. Sloane instantly pulled her hand back, trembling.
"You came here expecting mercy," I said, leaning forward slightly. "Because you thought once you cried and blamed Grant, I would feel sorry for you."
"I’m begging you..." Sloane whimpered.
"When I was living in Queens with eighty-three dollars to my name," I said, my voice dead level, "I didn't beg Grant. I didn't cry to the press. I took care of my children. You sat in this penthouse, drinking my husband's champagne, enjoying the life you stole from my family."
I stood up slowly, looking down at her.
"I will not give you money, Sloane. I will not pay for your luxury hotel, and I will not hire lawyers to defend you against federal asset forfeiture."
Sloane let out a heartbroken wail.
"However," I added, stopping her mid-sob, "I am a mother. And I will not watch another human being starve on the street, even someone who tried to destroy me."
I reached into my desk drawer, pulled out a small business card, and tossed it onto the floor beside her.
"That is the address of the Women's Shelter Foundation in Brooklyn," I said. "It is fully funded by the Vane Heritage Group. They will give you a clean bed, three meals a day, and vocational counseling so you can learn how to earn an honest living."
Sloane stared at the small card resting on the rug. Her pride fought against her desperation for three seconds before her trembling fingers reached out and picked it up.
"Take her down to the street, Marcus," I ordered quietly, turning my back on her. "And make sure she doesn't enter this building again."
May you like
As Marcus escorted the weeping former mistress into the elevator, I looked out the big bay window at the city below.
Justice was not always quick. It was not always neat. But when it finally arrived, it was absolute.
