Chapter 2 of My Secret Life Behind My Mother-in-law’s Back

I didn't go home that night.

The sting of Rebecca's slap had faded from my cheek, but her words—"You are not worthy of my daughter"—continued to echo in my mind as I drove through Seattle's rain-slicked streets. My phone buzzed relentlessly with calls from Charlotte, but I couldn't talk to her yet. Not until I processed what had just happened. Not until I decided what to do next.

I checked into the Four Seasons downtown using my rarely-used corporate card. Marcus met me in the hotel bar an hour later, his expression shifting from excitement about our funding news to concern when he saw my face.

"What happened?" he asked, sliding into the booth across from me.

"Rebecca happened," I replied, taking a long sip of whiskey. "She slapped me. In front of Charlotte, in front of the staff. Called me lazy, unworthy."

Marcus winced. "Jesus, Gabriel. That's assault."

"It's the final straw," I said quietly. "I'm done with the charade."

"So you're finally going to tell them about TechNova?"

I stared into my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "Not yet. First, we close this round. Then we do the press release. Then I tell them—all at once."

"That's cold," Marcus said, though I could see a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.

"No," I corrected him. "Cold was sitting at that table for three years while that woman systematically tried to destroy my marriage and my self-worth."

* * *

For the next three days, I disappeared into the world I'd been secretly building. The world where I wasn't Gabriel the struggling artist, but Gabriel Hastings, founder and CEO of TechNova Solutions, on the verge of closing a funding round that would value my company at nearly half a billion dollars.

I moved between lawyer's offices, investor meetings, and our unmarked headquarters in South Lake Union. I slept on the couch in my office, showered at the gym, and changed into the suits I kept in my private closet. I existed in a parallel universe where Rebecca Langford's opinion meant nothing.

I only texted Charlotte once: "I need some time. I'm safe. I love you."

She responded immediately: "I understand. Mom was horrible. Take the time you need. I love you too."

That simple message of support meant everything. Charlotte had always believed in me, even when she didn't fully understand what I was doing. Even when her mother worked tirelessly to convince her she'd made a terrible mistake in marrying me.

On the second day, Marcus updated me on the neighborhood gossip that was filtering back through his contacts.

"Your mother-in-law is having a field day with your disappearance," he reported, dropping into the chair across from my desk. "Apparently, she's telling everyone this proves what she's been saying all along—that you're irresponsible and weak."

I continued reviewing the term sheets without looking up. "Let her talk."

"Charlotte's fielding calls from concerned neighbors. Rebecca made sure everyone knows you stormed out after a 'minor disagreement.'"

That made me pause. "How is Charlotte handling it?"

"From what I hear, with remarkable grace. She's not confirming or denying anything, just saying you're taking some personal time."

I nodded, feeling a surge of pride and gratitude for my wife. Soon, she would understand everything.

* * *

On the third day, I received a text from my studio landlord:

"Some men in expensive suits asking about your lease. Also, fancy cars parked outside. What's going on, Hastings?"

I smiled. The venture capital firm's due diligence team, no doubt. I texted back a vague reassurance and returned to the final negotiations.

By evening, my phone buzzed with a message from Charlotte that made my blood run cold:

"Mom invited me to coffee with Eleanor and her friends tomorrow. Says she has something important to discuss about our future. Gabriel, I'm worried about what she's planning. When are you coming home?"

I stared at the screen, imagining Rebecca Langford assembling her socialite army, distributing divorce attorney business cards like party favors. Time was running out.

The final signature on the funding documents couldn't come soon enough.