Chapter 3 - The Mistress Appears
The heavy silence in the foyer was broken by the sound of hurried footsteps descending the grand curved staircase from the second-floor master suite.
Celeste, Daniel’s twenty-four-year-old assistant—and the woman he had spent the last six months sneaking out to meet under the guise of ‘late-night client dinners’—trotted down the steps. She was wrapped in one of my imported silk robes, her hair mussed, holding a glass of orange juice.
“Dani, babe, what’s going on?” Celeste whined, pouting as she reached the bottom step. “The heating in the master bedroom just clicked off, and the smart-fridge won't dispense—oh.”
She froze, her eyes landing on me standing by the open front door, flanked by private security and federal-grade legal counsel. Then her gaze dropped to my bare feet, the bloodstained hem of my nightshirt visible beneath my heavy coat, and the crying infant in my arms.
A flicker of smug satisfaction crossed Celeste’s face before she quickly masked it with a worried frown.
“Oh, Mara,” Celeste said, her tone dripping with mock pity. “You’re back. Look, honey, Daniel and I tried to tell you earlier, but you were just so… unstable. It’s for the best. A woman in your condition shouldn't be stressing over a man who clearly outgrew her.”
Denise immediately perked up, latching onto Celeste like a lifeline. “Yes! Exactly! Celeste is a modern woman with a career in high-end public relations. She understands Daniel’s world. She belongs in this house, not some barefoot nobody who begs for grocery money!”
I stared at Celeste. The sheer ignorance of these people was staggering. They had lived for three years inside a gilded cage built entirely by my hand, and yet they truly believed they were the masters of the domain.
“A career in public relations,” I repeated softly. “Is that what you call managing Daniel’s social calendar while he embezzled from my subsidiary?”
Celeste stiffened, her lip curling in irritation. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are talking to? Daniel, are you going to let this psycho stand in our foyer and insult me?”
Daniel didn’t answer. He was staring at his phone, his thumb tapping frantically against the dead screen as if sheer willpower could force the device to reboot.
“Celeste,” I said, stepping forward until I stood at the base of the grand staircase, looking up at her. “Do you know who owns the PR firm where you’re currently employed?”
Celeste blinked, tilting her head. “Of course I do. Sterling Media Group.”
“And do you know who owns Sterling Media Group?” I asked, my voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel.
“It’s an independent agency,” Celeste snapped, though a flicker of unease crossed her eyes.
“It was acquired by Vale Meridian Holdings eighteen months ago,” Lena supplied helpfully, stepping to my side. She tapped her tablet. “In fact, Ms. Dubois, your personnel file crossed my desk this morning. Along with your performance reviews, we found a rather extensive paper trail of expense reports where you billed personal luxury travel, designer handbags, and your apartment lease to Apex Financial’s client entertainment budget.”
Celeste’s face turned the color of curdled milk. “That’s… that’s a lie! Daniel approved those!”
“Daniel lacked the legal authority to approve a ten-dollar petty cash slip, let alone a six-figure slush fund,” I said coldly. “Which means you, Ms. Dubois, are now an accessory to corporate fraud.”
“You’re lying!” Celeste shrieked, dropping her glass of orange juice. It shattered across the marble steps, amber juice splattering against the white stone right beside where Daniel’s champagne had pooled minutes earlier. “Daniel, tell her she’s lying! Tell her you’re rich! Tell her we’re going to Paris next week!”
Daniel slowly lowered his dead phone. He looked at Celeste, then at his mother, and finally back at me. The arrogant, self-satisfied smirk that had defined him for years was entirely gone, replaced by the hollow, vacant stare of a cornered animal.
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“Mara,” Daniel whispered, his voice cracking. “Please. Let’s… let’s talk about this in the study. Just you and me. We have two newborns, for God’s sake. You can’t throw us out into the snow.”
“You threw me out into the snow ten minutes ago, Daniel,” I reminded him, my voice devoid of emotion. “With two newborns and my stitches still bleeding. The only difference is, I’m not throwing you out. I’m simply reclaiming what is mine.”
