Charlie unlocked the front door of the penthouse and stepped inside. The apartment was silent and empty. Claudius was still at the office, as she had known he would be.
She walked straight down the hallway to the walk-in closet. The motion sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the 300-square-meter space.
Rows and rows of haute couture dresses, organized by color and season. Hundreds of pairs of Christian Louboutin shoes, lined up like soldiers. An entire wall of Hermès Birkin bags, in every color and every leather.
Once, these things had made her feel special. Once, she had thought they were proof of his love.
Now, they just made her sick.
She pulled out her phone and opened Instagram again, scrolling back through Vivianne's feed. And one by one, she made the connections.
That Himalayan crocodile Birkin? Vivianne had carried it to Paris Fashion Week.
That Chanel tweed suit? Vivianne had worn it to a yacht party in the Hamptons.
That Cartier bracelet? That Gucci dress? That Jimmy Choo clutch? All of them. Every single gift he had ever given her. Vivianne had the exact same one.
And the worst part? Even Vivianne's poses. Even her makeup. Even her hairstyle. They were all terrible, cheap imitations of Corina.
Claudius wasn't just cheating on her with his wife. He was running two parallel relationships, with two different women, both of whom were just replacements for the woman who had rejected him.
He was a monster. A sick, twisted, psychopathic monster.
Charlie screamed and threw her phone as hard as she could against the wall. It hit the cashmere carpet and skidded across the floor, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks.
She stood there, breathing heavily, her chest heaving with rage. And then she knew exactly what she had to do.
She picked up her broken phone and dialed the VIP customer service line for The RealReal, America's largest luxury consignment platform.
"This is Charlie Powell," she said, her voice cold and steady. "I need your top appraisal team at my penthouse immediately. I want everything with the Buchanan name on it gone. Everything."
Less than an hour later, the doorbell rang. Four appraisers in crisp black uniforms stood in the hallway, rolling large hard-shell cases behind them.
Charlie led them to the closet. "All of it," she said, gesturing around. "The bags. The shoes. The clothes. The jewelry. Pack it all up."
The appraisers stared in shock. They had never seen anyone get rid of so much brand new, limited edition luxury goods all at once. But they knew better than to ask questions. They got to work immediately, carefully wrapping each item in tissue paper and packing it into the cases.
Just as the last case was about to be sealed, the private elevator dinged.
Claudius walked in. He was wearing his perfectly tailored navy suit, and he was holding a dessert box from a three-Michelin-starred restaurant.
He stopped short when he saw the empty closets and the four strange men in his apartment. His dark eyes narrowed, and a dangerous glint flashed in them.
The air in the room turned to ice. The appraisers froze, suddenly very aware that they were in the presence of one of the most powerful men in New York. No one dared to breathe.
Claudius set the dessert box down on the kitchen island. He turned to Charlie, his voice so low it was almost a growl.
"What is going on here?"
Charlie's heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she thought it would break. But she put on her most innocent, spoiled smile and walked over to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
"All those clothes are so last season," she said, pouting. "I'm sick of them. I want a whole new wardrobe. I don't want to look like every other boring socialite in New York anymore."
She bit his chin playfully, looking up at him with big, wide eyes. "Don't be mad, okay? I just wanted a change."
Claudius stared down at her for a long, long time, searching her face for any sign of deception. Charlie held his gaze steadily, not blinking, not flinching.
Finally, he sighed. The ice in his eyes melted, and he reached up to ruffle her hair.
"You're impossible," he said, shaking his head.
He pulled an American Express Centurion card out of his inner suit pocket and held it between his long fingers.
"Fine," he said. "If you don't like them, throw them all away. Tomorrow, take this card and go buy whatever you want on Fifth Avenue. The whole store if you feel like it."
Charlie smiled and took the card from him. Her fingertips brushed against his warm skin, but inside, she was colder than ice.
She watched as the appraisers rolled the last case out the door. And as the elevator closed behind them, she knew that she hadn't just cleared out her closet.
She had cleared out the last remaining piece of her heart that had ever belonged to Claudius Buchanan.
