Harris came home earlier than usual, a strained smile plastered on his face. He walked into the dining room and wrapped his arms around Kasie in a stiff, perfunctory hug. The scent of a cloying, unfamiliar perfume, not hers, not his, clung to his suit jacket.
"Honey, this looks amazing," he said, his voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful. "You worked so hard."
"I hope you like it," Kasie replied, her own smile a perfect, fragile mask. It was Janiyah's signature scent, Chanel No. 5. Of course it was.
The dinner was a masterclass in deception. Harris was painfully attentive, refilling her wine glass, piling food onto her plate, asking about her day with a focus he hadn't shown in years. Kasie knew Margo must have called him, prepped him. Keep her calm. Keep her happy. We're managing the situation.
He was trying to soothe her, to placate the little woman he thought he could buy off.
"There's a charity gala tonight for the Children's Health Fund," he said, carefully cutting his steak. "I'd really like it if you'd come with me. We need to show a united front."
"Of course," Kasie said. It was part of the deal. One month of performances.
After dinner, they descended to the subterranean garage. Harris walked a few paces ahead, his phone buzzing in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a small, unconscious smile.
"Just a quick work call," he said to Kasie, already turning away. "I'll be right back." He walked toward the far end of the garage, seeking privacy.
Kasie didn't move. She stood by their black Bentley, her shadow long in the dim light. From her vantage point, she could see his reflection perfectly in the polished surface of a concrete support pillar. She watched as he put the phone to his ear, his entire posture softening, his expression turning tender.
She just watched.
A few minutes later, the purr of a high-performance engine echoed through the garage. A cherry-red Porsche 911 pulled up beside Harris. Janiyah Vincent, blonde hair gleaming even in the low light, stepped out.
She threw herself into Harris's arms, and they kissed, a long, hungry kiss under the flickering fluorescent lights.
"Do you really have to take her tonight?" Janiyah's voice was a petulant whine, carrying across the empty space.
"Baby, it's just for show," Harris murmured, his hands tangled in her hair. "You know you're the one I love."
A wave of nausea washed over Kasie. It was a physical, gut-wrenching revulsion. She forced herself to breathe, to burn the image into her memory. She raised her phone, shielded by the Bentley, and silently recorded a video.
Harris ended the kiss. "Be good," he told Janiyah. "You go on ahead. I'll be there soon."
Janiyah pouted, got back in her car, and sped away. In the two seconds before her engine revved, Kasie saw it—the split-second shift on Janiyah's face as she turned toward the wheel. The pout was gone. The adoring girlfriend mask had slipped, and beneath it was something colder. Flatter. The face of a woman checking a number on a spreadsheet, confirming an investment was still on track. Then she was gone, and the mask was back in place as if it had never moved.
Harris straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and walked back toward Kasie, the mask of the devoted husband sliding perfectly back into place.
As he approached, Kasie lowered her phone.
"Work call finished?" she asked, her voice impossibly level.
"Yeah," he nodded. "Just a minor issue at the firm."
She looked at him, at the lie sitting so comfortably on his handsome face.
"Harris," she said, the words feeling strange and foreign on her tongue. "I want a divorce."
His smile froze, then curdled into a frown. "What are you talking about? Because I took a phone call?"
He stepped closer, his voice dropping into the familiar, condescending tone of a man explaining reason to a hysterical child. "You're being overly sensitive again, Kasie. You've been imagining things lately."
Gaslighting. His favorite tool.
She didn't argue. She didn't raise her voice. She simply repeated, "I don't want this life anymore. I want a divorce."
His patience snapped. He grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging into her skin. "I'm not divorcing you," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "I told you. Never."
Kasie didn't flinch. She looked down at his hand on her wrist, then back up at his face. In one swift motion, she brought her stiletto heel down hard on the instep of his Italian leather shoe.
Harris howled, his grip breaking as he staggered back. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Take your hand off me," she said, her voice low and steady as a blade. "Ever touch me like that again, and I'll do more than step on your foot."
She rubbed the red marks his fingers had left on her wrist, her eyes never leaving his. The danger in her gaze made him hesitate, his face contorted between rage and shock.
He pulled her toward the car and opened the door with a sharp jerk. The drive to the gala was silent and cold.
When they returned home hours later, the pretense shattered, Kasie walked directly into their massive walk-in closet. She began pulling things from the shelves. The Cartier bracelet. The Birkin bags. The diamond earrings he'd given her for their last anniversary.
She laid each item out on the bed, a glittering graveyard of his guilt.
One by one, she photographed them. Then she opened a secure messaging app and sent the photos to a discreet contact, a high-end consignment dealer she'd found months ago.
Her message was simple.
All of it. Rush sale. I don't care about the price. I just want the cash.
