Chapter 6 6

Deliah met with Ethan Vance in a nondescript cafe in Tribeca earlier that day. He was younger than she expected, sharp-eyed and efficient. He handed her a manila envelope across the table.

"It's a draft," he said quietly. "But it's legally binding once signed and filed. Are you sure, Mrs. Bolton?"

"I'm sure," Deliah said. She took the envelope and slid it into her oversized clutch purse. It barely fit.

That evening, Deliah and Jere arrived at Per Se. The restaurant was quiet elegance, the view of Central Park breathtaking. The Maitre d' greeted them by name and led them to the best table by the window.

Jere was attentive. He poured the wine, he asked about her day, he acted the part of the perfect husband. For a split second, Deliah felt a pang of guilt. What if she was wrong? What if the second bracelet really was for his mother? What if the hospital visit was for a sick relative she didn't know about?

They ordered appetizers. The conversation was stilted, but civil.

Then, Jere's phone lit up on the table. A text message.

He glanced at it, and the color drained from his face. His eyes went wide with genuine fear.

He stood up immediately, knocking his napkin to the floor. "I have to go."

Deliah grabbed his wrist. Her grip was desperate. "Jere, sit down. It's dinner. We just got here."

Jere pulled away, his strength surprising her. "It's an emergency, Deliah. Security breach at the data center. The servers are overheating."

Deliah knew it was a lie. He didn't look like a man worried about servers. He looked like a man worried about a person.

"Sit down," she hissed, "or we are done."

Jere looked at her. His eyes were cold, completely devoid of affection. "Don't threaten me, Deliah. This is business. This pays for your life."

He reached into his wallet and threw a stack of hundred-dollar bills onto the table. It was insulting. It was crude.

"Pay the bill," he said.

He turned and walked away fast, weaving through the tables without looking back.

Deliah was left alone in the crowded restaurant. The silence around her table was deafening. She felt the eyes of the other diners on her-pitying glances, whispered comments. Humiliation burned her cheeks like fire.

She stood up to leave, her hands shaking so badly she couldn't coordinate her movements. She grabbed her clutch, but her fingers were numb.

She knocked the clutch off the table.

It hit the floor. The magnetic clasp popped open. The contents spilled onto the plush carpet. Lipstick, keys, phone... and the manila envelope.

The envelope slid out, face up. The bold, black letters at the top of the document were partially visible: DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

A waiter rushed over immediately. "Let me help you, Madame."

Deliah dove for the papers, panic surging through her veins. If the press saw this... if anyone saw this...

She slammed her hand down on the text just as the waiter reached for it.

"I've got it!" she snapped, her voice too loud, cracking with hysteria.

The waiter backed off, startled, hands raised. "Apologies, Madame."

Deliah shoved the papers back into the envelope and jammed it into her bag. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She left the cash on the table-she didn't care about the change.

She ran out of the restaurant into the rainy New York night. She ignored the line of limos. She ran to the curb and hailed a yellow cab, oblivious to the water soaking her dress. She wasn't going home. Not tonight.