"Well," I said finally, settling into the armchair across from Tiffany, "we'll see about that."
She looked up at me with those wide, innocent eyes that had probably fooled Mark completely. "Mrs. Dalton, I really want to make a good impression. I know I messed up with the party, but I can fix this."
"Can you?" I tilted my head, studying her. "A Dalton woman understands that some first impressions are lasting ones."
Tiffany swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in my robe—no, her dress now. "Please give me another chance."
I stood up slowly, letting my gaze wander around the room—at the empty wine bottles, the scattered glasses, the cigarette butts in my imported ashtrays. "You know, in our family, we believe in traditional values."
"Traditional values," Tiffany repeated eagerly, like a puppy waiting for a treat.
"Yes." I moved to the windows, looking out at the garden where I'd spent so many weekends planting roses. "Traditional wife training."
"Training?" Her voice wavered slightly.
"You want to be a Dalton woman, don't you?" I turned back to her, letting a small smile play at my lips. "Mark's mother?"
"Yes! I mean—" She caught herself, blushing. "I want to make Mark happy."
"Then you'll need to learn proper household management." I moved to the hall closet, pulling out the cleaning supplies. "The marble floors in this house need special care."
Tiffany's eyes widened as I placed a scrub brush and bucket at her feet.
"Hands and knees," I instructed, my voice firm as steel. "That's how a proper wife shows her devotion."
"But—" She looked at the brush like it might bite her. "I've never—"
"A Dalton woman excels at everything she puts her mind to." I handed her a pair of yellow rubber gloves. "Including keeping her home immaculate."
For a moment, I thought she might refuse. Her lower lip trembled, and I could see the conflict in her eyes—the choice between pride and ambition.
Then she took the gloves.
"Good girl," I said, patting her head like a dog. "Begin with the entryway."
I watched as Tiffany knelt on my Italian marble floor, her designer dress riding up as she awkwardly positioned herself. The scrub brush looked enormous in her manicured hands.
"This will take hours," she murmured, already sounding defeated.
"That's the point." I moved toward the stairs. "I'll be checking your progress."
Once upstairs, I moved with purpose. Mark's study was my first target—the one room he kept locked when I was home. Now, with Tiffany occupied downstairs, I used the spare key I'd hidden in my jewelry box years ago.
The room smelled of him—expensive cologne and leather-bound books he never read. I went straight to his desk, methodically opening drawers until I found what I was looking for: a folder marked "Personal."
Inside were credit card statements—not our joint account, but one I'd never seen before. An American Express Black Card in his name only.
"Interesting," I murmured, flipping through the pages.
Dinner at Le Bernardin. A weekend at the Four Seasons. A charge from Tiffany's favorite jeweler downtown.
I took photos of everything with my phone, my hands steady despite the rage building inside me.
"What else are you hiding, Mark?"
I moved to his computer next, but it was password protected. Of course it was. I'd have to find another way.
Downstairs, I could hear Tiffany scrubbing away, her movements growing more labored by the minute.
"Mrs. Dalton?" she called out. "The entryway is done. What should I do next?"
"Check the bathroom," I replied, my voice carrying down the stairs. "A Dalton woman's domain is spotless."
I slipped into our bedroom—my bedroom—and went straight to the nightstand where Mark kept his personal items. Nothing there except some reading glasses and a book he'd been pretending to read for months.
Then I noticed Tiffany's purse on the chaise lounge.
She'd left her phone unguarded.
I moved quickly, snatching it up before she could appear in the doorway. The phone was unlocked—of course it was. Tiffany probably didn't have anything worth hiding.
But she did have photos.
Intimate photos of her and Mark. In our bed. On our yacht. At his office after hours.
"Perfect," I whispered, quickly transferring the images to my own phone.
There were text messages too—screenshots she'd saved of Mark's promises to her.
"I'll leave her soon, baby. You're the one I want."
"My mother will love you once she gets to know you."
"Eleanor's career is more important than our marriage."
I copied them all, my fingers moving with surgical precision.
"Eleanor who?" I whispered to the empty room.
Downstairs, I could hear Tiffany moving to the bathroom, her scrubbing more vigorous now, probably hoping to impress me.
"Mrs. Dalton!" she called out. "I'm working on the guest bathroom now!"
"Excellent," I replied, slipping her phone back into her purse exactly as I'd found it. "But we need to discuss proper devotion to the Dalton family."
I found her on her knees in the master bathroom, scrubbing at the tile around my clawfoot tub.
"Tiffany," I said, my voice echoing in the marble space. "A Dalton woman understands that true devotion goes beyond surface appearances."
She looked up at me, her hair falling in damp strands around her face. "I don't understand."
"The toilets," I said, pointing to the master bathroom's separate water closet. "They require special attention."
Her face fell. "The toilets?"
"Yes." I moved closer, watching as she struggled to her feet. "Cleanliness is next to godliness, as they say."
"But—" She glanced at the toilet, then back at me. "Isn't that... beneath me?"
"Nothing is beneath a Dalton woman who wants to prove her worth." I handed her a fresh cloth and a bottle of disinfectant. "Unless you're not serious about joining our family."
Tiffany took the supplies with trembling hands.
"I'll be checking your work," I said, turning to leave. "And remember—a Dalton woman's devotion is complete."
As I closed the door behind me, I could hear her small sigh of defeat.
In Mark's study again, I went through his desk drawers more thoroughly this time. In the bottom drawer, hidden beneath some financial reports, I found a small box.
Inside were love letters—actual handwritten notes from Tiffany to Mark, and his responses. Sweet nothings and promises, all documented in their own words.
And better yet—printed screenshots of text messages between them, saved and dated.
A complete timeline of their affair.
"Gotcha," I whispered, carefully photographing each page.
I was so absorbed in my discovery that I almost missed the sound of a key in the front door downstairs.
Mark was home early.
And Tiffany was still on her knees in my bathroom, scrubbing toilets like the mistress she was.
I quickly returned the box to its hiding place and moved to the top of the stairs, a plan already forming in my mind.
"Mother?" Mark's voice echoed through the foyer. "Are you home early from the Hamptons?"
I smiled to myself, thinking of the surprise that awaited him.
"Yes, dear," I called down, my voice perfectly matching Victoria's imperious tone. "And I've brought a special gift for you."
