Chapter 4

The next morning, Isabelle found me staring blankly at the wall, Leo asleep in my arms.

"Mrs. Peterson," she said gently. "The neighborhood forum moderator, Mrs. Henderson? Her husband also had... issues with Ms. Allen making inappropriate advances last year."

I looked at her, confused.

"Mrs. Henderson traced the doxxing posts and the complaints to the landlord," Isabelle continued. "It wasn't you, or anyone in this neighborhood. It was the ex-wife of Brenda's former boss. Apparently, Brenda has a long history of causing workplace drama, affairs, that sort of thing. Mark... he just assumed it was you again."

Of course, he did. He always assumed the worst of me, the best of Brenda.

A few days later, a well-meaning acquaintance from a charity committee I used to volunteer with forwarded me a link.

"Thought you'd like to see this, Sarah! Mark is so generous!"

It was a local society blog, covering a children's charity gala from the previous weekend.

There was a prominent photo. Mark, beaming, with Brenda on his arm.

She was wearing a stunning emerald green dress, a dress I recognized. Mark had pointed it out in a boutique window months ago, saying how beautiful it would look on me.

Beside them stood Maya, smiling shyly.

The caption read: "Architect Mark Peterson with his lovely companion, interior designer Brenda Allen, and her daughter Maya. Mr. Peterson' s generous donation secured Maya a scholarship to the prestigious New Dalton Academy."

A new, exclusive private school. So, the charter school hadn't been enough. He was funding her life now.

My phone rang again. It was Mr. Henderson, the manager of one of my rental properties. It was a historic storefront on Charles Street, a gift from George and Carol after my parents died, part of the portfolio ensuring my financial independence.

"Mrs. Peterson? Sarah? I'm a bit confused. Mr. Peterson has been here twice this week. He's putting a lot of pressure on me to terminate the artisan bakery's lease."

The bakery was run by a sweet older couple, their croissants legendary.

"He says you want to let a friend of his open a chic home décor boutique there. A Ms. Brenda Allen?"

The audacity. My property. My income. A gift from his parents, to me.

I felt a profound sense of violation. He was trying to control everything, even the assets that were solely mine.

"Mr. Henderson," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Regarding that property, I am relinquishing all decisions to Mr. Peterson's... discretion."

It was a coded message. The property was legally mine. George and Carol would understand.

As I hung up, my hand trembled. I reached for my coffee mug, but it slipped, shattering on the hardwood floor.

A sharp shard of ceramic sliced into the sole of my foot.

I barely felt it.