Chapter 3 3

The library was dim, the heavy oak paneling absorbing the afternoon light. Emelie sat at Clifton's massive mahogany desk, a document spread out before her.

The Prenuptial Agreement.

She traced the lines with her finger.

...in the event of dissolution of marriage, the party of the second part (Emelie Glover) waives all rights to alimony, spousal support, and any claim to Wilder Enterprises equity...

...custody of any issue born of the marriage shall default to the party of the first part (Clifton Wilder) unless proven unfit...

It was a death sentence. If she left now, she would leave with nothing. No money. No home. And worst of all, no Lily.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. Harper.

"I'm looking at the digital copy you sent," Harper said, her voice tinny through the speaker. "It's ironclad, Em. He locked you down tight. You need leverage. Serious leverage."

"What kind of leverage?"

"Scandal," Harper said bluntly. "Or financial independence. You need to be able to outspend him in court, or destroy his reputation so badly he settles to make you go away."

Financial independence. Emelie thought of the laptop in the safe. The RT303 patent could be worth billions. But if she revealed it now, while still married, half of it-maybe all of it, under intellectual property clauses in the prenup-could belong to him.

"I'll find something," Emelie whispered.

The doorbell chimed. A cheerful, melodic sound that echoed through the silent house.

Emelie frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone.

She walked out of the library to the mezzanine overlooking the foyer.

Mrs. Higgins was opening the door, a wide, sycophantic smile plastered on her face.

"Oh, Miss Hardy! What a lovely surprise!"

Emelie's blood ran cold.

Eleanora Hardy breezed into the foyer. She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere dress that matched the tie Clifton had worn the night before. She held a large, shiny shopping bag from FAO Schwarz.

She looked radiant. Healthy. The perfect contrast to Emelie's pale, sleepless exhaustion.

"Hello, Mrs. Higgins," Eleanora's voice was like liquid honey. "I heard little Lily was under the weather. I brought something to cheer her up."

Emelie gripped the railing of the staircase. Her knuckles turned white.

She descended the stairs slowly, her heels clicking on the marble like gunshots.

"Lily isn't here," Emelie said.

Eleanora looked up, feigning surprise. She clutched the bag to her chest. "Oh, Emelie. I didn't see you there."

"I live here," Emelie said, reaching the bottom step. She blocked the path to the living room. "Unlike you."

Eleanora's smile didn't waver, but her eyes hardened. "Clifton didn't tell you? He asked me to come. He thought Lily might need... soothing. We have such a connection, you know. Piano lessons and all."

"My daughter is in a clinic recovering from lung failure," Emelie said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "She doesn't need a piano teacher. She needs her mother."

"Well," Eleanora took a step closer, invading Emelie's personal space. She lowered her voice so Mrs. Higgins couldn't hear. "Maybe if her mother hadn't been so hysterical at the hospital, Clifton wouldn't have had to move her. He told me everything. How you screamed at the doctors. Embarrassing."

Emelie felt the urge to slap her. It was a physical itch in her palm.

"Get out," Emelie whispered.

"Ladies?"

Clifton's voice boomed from the doorway. He had just walked in, shaking rain off his umbrella.

He looked from Emelie's furious face to Eleanora's wide, tear-filled eyes.

"Clifton," Eleanora sniffled, turning to him. "I just wanted to drop off a teddy bear. Emelie is... upset."

Clifton sighed, a sound of deep fatigue. "Emelie, please. Eleanora is a guest. Don't be rude."

"She's not a guest," Emelie said, pointing at the door. "She's the reason you weren't there when your daughter stopped breathing."

"That's enough!" Clifton snapped. "Eleanora, stay for dinner. Please."

Emelie watched as her husband guided his mistress into the living room, his hand lingering on the small of her back.

Dinner was a torture session.

They sat at the long dining table, Clifton at the head, Eleanora to his right, Emelie to his left.

Eleanora dominated the conversation. She spoke of art, of the gala, of the Wilder Foundation's stock performance. She spoke to Clifton as if Emelie wasn't there.

Emelie pushed a piece of asparagus around her plate. She felt invisible. A ghost in her own life.

Buzz.

Emelie's phone sat on the table. The screen lit up.

Calendar Reminder: Marital Duty.

Time: 10:00 PM.

Emelie stared at the notification. Clifton's secretary, efficient as always, had scheduled their sex life. Once a month. Like a board meeting.

Eleanora glanced at the phone, saw the notification, and smirked. A tiny, cruel curling of her lips.

Emelie flipped the phone over.

At 10:00 PM, Clifton entered the master bedroom. He had showered. He smelled of soap, but underneath, Emelie could still smell the faint, cloying scent of Eleanora's perfume that had clung to him over dinner.

Emelie was sitting up in bed, wearing a high-necked flannel nightgown. She was reading a thick medical journal.

Clifton loosened his robe. He looked at her expectantly.

"It's late," he said. It wasn't a question.

He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her shoulder.

Emelie flinched away. She closed the journal with a snap.

"No," she said.

Clifton froze. His hand hovered in the air. "Excuse me?"

"I said no. I'm not feeling well."

"You look fine," Clifton said, his brow furrowing. "It's been a month, Emelie."

"I think I caught whatever Lily has," Emelie lied smoothly. She looked him in the eye. "The doctor said it's highly contagious. Viral shedding."

Clifton recoiled. His obsession with hygiene, usually a quirk, flared into genuine alarm. He stood up immediately, wiping his hand on his robe.

"You should have said something earlier," he muttered, backing away toward the door.

"I just did," Emelie said.

"Fine. I'll sleep in the guest room. I have an early meeting anyway."

He turned and walked out, closing the door with a little too much force.

Emelie let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging. She turned off the bedside lamp.

In the darkness, her phone lit up again. An unknown number.

A text message.

It was a photo.

It showed Clifton's black sedan parked in front of a luxury apartment building. Eleanora's building.

The timestamp was two minutes ago.

He hadn't gone to the guest room. He had gone to her.

Emelie didn't cry. She saved the photo.