Charlene sat at the head of the long, mahogany dining table. She sliced into the perfectly cooked, medium-rare steak, bringing a piece to her mouth.
Her iPhone, resting next to her crystal water glass, buzzed. The screen lit up.
It was an encrypted email from an unknown sender, a secure drop she had set up months ago through her underground network as 'Vesper'. She had paid a private investigator a small fortune to tail Dawson, and the investment had finally paid off.
She tapped the screen. Several high-resolution images loaded into view.
Charlene used her thumb and index finger to zoom in. The photos showed Dawson and the woman with Angelita's profile. They were walking through the gilded lobby of the Four Seasons, heading toward the elevators.
Her eyes darted to the bottom right corner of the image. The digital timestamp glowed brightly. It was the exact date and time of her car crash.
Staring at the undeniable proof of her husband checking into a hotel with another woman while she was bleeding on the steering wheel, Charlene felt no heartbreak. Her pulse didn't even quicken. Instead, a rush of pure, calculating adrenaline flooded her veins.
She had the kill shot.
She quickly saved the photos and uploaded them to her private, heavily encrypted cloud server.
She finished the last bite of her steak, wiped her mouth with a linen napkin, and pushed her chair back.
Charlene walked upstairs and went straight back into the master bedroom. She stood in front of the massive, wall-to-wall closet.
She walked into the adjoining storage room and grabbed a roll of heavy-duty black trash bags.
She returned to the closet and began ripping clothes off the hangers. The expensive cashmere sweaters, the conservative silk pajamas, the modest cardigans. Every single item Dawson had forced her to wear to satisfy his twisted obsession with Angelita.
She balled the luxurious fabrics up in her fists and shoved them violently into the black plastic bags.
Next came the shoes. The harmless flats, the white slippers. She swept them off the shelves, letting them tumble into the garbage.
Thirty minutes later, the massive closet was half empty. Only a few old, pre-marriage clothes remained.
Charlene pressed the intercom button on the wall. Two maids appeared in the doorway seconds later, looking terrified.
Charlene pointed to the four bulging trash bags on the floor.
"Take these to the backyard and burn them," she ordered. "Or donate them to a shelter. I don't care."
The maids stared at the bags. They could see the tags of high-end designers poking out of the plastic. They stood frozen, too scared to touch Dawson's purchased property.
Charlene rolled her eyes. She grabbed the thick plastic knot of the heaviest bag and dragged it backward.
The heavy bag scraped loudly against the carpet. She hauled it out of the bedroom and violently tipped it over right in the middle of the hallway.
The heavy thud echoed down the stairs.
Dawson, who had just returned from a business dinner, was halfway up the staircase. He stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes locked onto the black trash bags and the expensive silk spilling out onto the floor. The air pressure in the hallway plummeted.
He took the remaining stairs two at a time. He marched toward her, his jaw locked tight.
"When exactly is this tantrum going to end?" he hissed, his voice lethal.
Charlene dusted off her hands. She looked at him with bored eyes. "I have amnesia. I don't want to wear clothes that don't fit my taste."
Dawson let out a dark, furious laugh. He stepped forward, raising his hands to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her.
Charlene sidestepped him effortlessly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
She opened the high-res photo and shoved the screen directly into Dawson's face.
Dawson's eyes focused on the image. His pupils contracted sharply. For a fraction of a second, raw panic flashed across his composed features.
Charlene's lips curved into a sharp, mocking smile.
"This violates the fault-based infidelity clause in our prenuptial agreement," she said, her voice ringing clear and cold in the hallway. "I want a divorce. And I want a division of your personal equity as alimony."
