Chapter 3

Richard didn't come home that night. Or the next. He checked into the Plaza and began calling every lawyer in Manhattan, trying to find someone who could challenge the equity split. From what Priya told me, he was burning through retainers like kindling.

Meanwhile, I had work to do.

The board meeting was set for Friday, and I needed every member aligned before Richard could mount a defense. Margaret Chen, our longest-serving board member, was already on my side—she'd suspected the financial irregularities for months but lacked proof. David Park followed Margaret's lead, as he always did. That left two swing votes: James Whitfield and Elena Rossi.

I invited Elena to lunch at The Grill on Wednesday. She arrived in head-to-toe Chanel, her silver hair pinned in an immaculate chignon, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

"I assume this isn't about the quarterly projections," she said, sliding into the booth.

"It's about $1.3 million in unauthorized expenditures funneled to a woman who's never done a day of consulting in her life," I replied, handing her a summary. "And a CEO who approved every transaction without board authorization."

Elena studied the documents while we ate, her expression unreadable. Finally, she set down her fork. "I always wondered why Richard's 'consultant' attended so many client dinners in cocktail dresses."

"She's attending more than dinners," I said evenly.

Elena met my gaze. "You have my vote, Vivienne. But James will be harder. He golfs with Richard. They're practically fraternity brothers."

I nodded. James Whitfield was old money, old boys' club. He'd side with Richard out of loyalty unless I gave him a reason not to.

That reason came Thursday morning, courtesy of Derek.

"Vivienne," Derek said, walking into my office with his laptop. "You need to see this."

He turned the screen toward me. Sabrina had launched a new Instagram account—a "lifestyle brand" called Luxe & Lace. Her bio read: CEO & Founder. Empowering women through elegance. Every product on the site—handbags, scarves, jewelry—was sourced from our company's suppliers, at our negotiated wholesale prices.

"She's been using our vendor contracts," Derek said, his voice tight. "Our trade discounts. Our logistics network. All routed through a shell company registered to—wait for it—Richard's personal email."

My blood ran cold. Not from shock—from the sheer stupidity of it. Richard had essentially built his mistress a business using my company's infrastructure, and he'd been dumb enough to leave a digital trail.

"Get everything to Priya," I said. "And send a copy to James Whitfield with a note: 'Thought you'd want to see where your dividends are going.'"

By Thursday evening, James had called an emergency pre-meeting with the board. Richard wasn't invited.

I spent that night alone in our apartment—the penthouse on Park Avenue that I'd purchased before we were married, with money from my family's trust. Richard had always told people "we" bought it. Another lie I'd let slide for the sake of peace.

As I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the city glitter below, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

"You think you've won, but you have no idea what's coming. —S"

Sabrina. I stared at the message, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Then another buzz:

"Ask your husband about the Cayman Islands account. The one with YOUR name on it."

I called Priya immediately. "We have a problem."