Chapter 6 - THE MISTRESS’S PLEA
Three days after the scandal broke,
I was sitting in a small cafe in Soho.
I wanted to be somewhere anonymous,
somewhere away from the prying eyes of the Upper East Side.
I was halfway through my latte when a woman approached my table.
She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a trench coat.
She looked tired,
her skin pale and her hair unwashed.
It was Brittany Adams.
She didn't look like the confident woman in the photos.
She looked like a girl who had been through a car wreck.
"Claire,"
she said,
her voice trembling.
"Can I talk to you?"
I didn't invite her to sit.
I just looked at her.
"You've said enough through your photos,
Brittany."
"Please,"
she begged,
sliding into the chair across from me.
"Michael... he won't answer my calls."
"He hasn't paid the rent on the apartment he got me."
"The landlord is evicting me."
I took a slow sip of my coffee,
unmoved by her plight.
"That sounds like a personal problem between you and your former lover."
"He told me he was going to leave you!"
she cried,
a few people at the next table turning to look.
"He told me you were cold and that the marriage was a business arrangement."
"He tells that to every girl,
Brittany,"
I said calmly.
"You weren't special."
"You were just convenient."
She started to sob,
the tears streaking her makeup.
"I lost my job."
"Nobody will hire me."
"I have nothing."
"You had a choice,"
I reminded her.
"You chose to sleep with a married man."
"You chose to send me photos of my own bedroom to gloat."
"You wanted to hurt me,
Brittany."
"Now you're hurting."
"That’s called a consequence."
She looked at me,
her eyes filled with a mixture of hatred and desperation.
"You did this,"
she hissed.
"You sent that email."
"I only shared what you provided,"
I countered.
"If you didn't want people to see you in my robe,
you shouldn't have taken the picture."
I stood up,
placing a ten-dollar bill on the table for my coffee.
"Don't ever contact me again."
"If you do,
I’ll file for a restraining order."
"And believe me,
Brittany,
I have the lawyers to make it stick."
I walked out of the cafe without looking back.
I felt no pity for her.
She had tried to destroy my life for the sake of a designer handbag.
She had underestimated the woman she was attacking.
As I walked down the street,
I felt a sense of closure.
Brittany was no longer a threat.
She was just a footnote in a larger story of betrayal.
But as I reached the corner,
my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
"You think you've won,
Claire?"
"Check your front door."
The message sent a chill down my spine.
Michael.
I called Ryan immediately.
"Are you at the townhouse?"
"I'm around the corner,"
Ryan said.
"Why?"
"Michael just sent a message."
"Check the door."
"On it,"
Ryan said,
his voice dropping into his professional tone.
I waited,
my heart pounding in my ears.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
"Claire,"
Ryan finally said.
"You need to come home."
May you like
"He didn't break in."
"But he left something you need to see."
