“Crosby… I’m so tired. Being married to Jagger… It’s exhausting. I just want to leave him. I want to leave Lancaster.”
Charlene Rosenthal stared at the newest batch of photos the paparazzi had sent her, her fingers trembling as she dialed her best friend.
Before she could even hear a hello, another call cut in—an unknown number.
Her gut tightened. This wasn’t going to be good. Still, against her better judgment, she picked up.
“Skyline Gateway Airport. 4:10 p.m. Trust me—you’ll want to be there.”
The next second, she heard a click; the line went dead.
Charlene let out a dry, bitter laugh. She looked around at the photos scattered all over the floor—picture after picture of Jagger Sulzberger tangled up with other women, some too close, some too intimate. At this point, she honestly didn’t know what could still surprise her.
“Miss Charlene, Ma’am Delores invites you to the family estate for dinner.”
That voice—Cressida Hayden. The maid. The only thing Jagger had actually left behind in this cold, empty villa. One of his many flings, conveniently placed under the same roof.
There was a trace of smugness in her tone that made Charlene want to laugh. ‘A maid, thinking she was one good night away from becoming Cinderella!’
But unlike Jagger’s glamorous women parading around on social media, Cressida was just someone he toyed with when he was too lazy to go out.
Charlene knew Cressida resented her. Her existence alone meant Jagger rarely came home, and Cressida had barely seen him more than twice.
“Here. You’ll enjoy this,” Charlene said flatly, shoving the envelope of photos into Cressida’s hands.
Over forty pictures. A handful of them showed Cressida herself wrapped around Jagger.
She flipped through them, her eyes widening—other women were dressed to the nines, perfectly styled, perfectly made up—and there she was, in her plain maid’s uniform. Her face turned red with embarrassment and rage.
“This is a violation of my privacy!” she shrieked, storming after Charlene, ripping the photos into shreds as she went.
Charlene didn’t look back. She simply watched the maid unravel with quiet detachment, like someone watching a child throw a tantrum over a broken toy.
“You’re fired.”
At that, Cressida let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You don’t even know how to keep your husband, yet you think it’s my fault?
“If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t even come back home! I’ll tell him you fired me! He won’t just let it go. You think you have power, but I’m the one he—”
“Then go tell him,” Charlene interrupted. “Go chase him down if you think you mean that much. But if you really had a place in his life, you’d be flaunting his credit card like the rest of them—dripping in diamonds, posting selfies from five-star hotels. Not here. Not cleaning up after me.”
She stepped closer.
“You know this better than I do: if you had even a sliver of value in his world, you wouldn’t be pouring my tea. So instead of threatening me, maybe think about where you’ll end up when I’m gone.”
With that, she turned and headed upstairs.
It was rare for her to lose her temper. People had provoked her before. She always smiled politely and sent them away gracefully. Even reporters. Even when they shoved mics in her face and asked about Jagger’s affairs, she smiled and said she trusted him.
But somewhere along the way, she stopped pretending for that guy.
Somewhere along the way, Jagger had drained her dry—her patience, her pride, her love.
With a sigh, she sat at her desk, opening her laptop. She still had work to do—things to finish before she left this city for good.
She wasn’t going to walk away as someone pitiful or naive. She wasn’t just a woman lost in love. She’d prove she was capable. Sharp. Resilient.
Maybe it was the pregnancy making her hyperaware, but something about that 4:10 call clung to her.
She kept her eyes on the clock, her fingers idle over the keyboard.
When the hour hand hit three, she stood up, changed her clothes, and told the driver to head to the airport.
At exactly 4:10 p.m, she saw him through the car window first—Jagger, holding a tall, slim woman close as they walked toward a luxury car.
He was smiling. Gentle. Attentive. Like he actually cared.
And for a moment, her heart stopped.
Then she pulled herself back. ‘Just another one,’ she told herself. ‘Another affair. Another woman.’
Even if she didn’t love him anymore, six years together didn’t just disappear overnight.
But all she had left now was the empty title of being his wife.
As they got closer, she saw the woman’s face—and everything inside her cracked.
The quiet excuses she’d been clinging to—the rationalizations, the numb acceptance—were torn to shreds.
She dialed.
“Jagger. Mom wants us to come back for dinner.”
Her hand trembled, but her eyes never left the couple.
Jagger stopped. The woman beside him looked up, curious.
“I told you—I’m busy, alright?! Jeez, there are ten freaking maids at the villa. Can’t one of them keep you company?!”
And with that, he hung up.
He didn’t know his wife was right there...
Watching as he wrapped his arm tighter around his first love—got into the car with her—and disappeared.
