I left Julian's final demand hanging in the damp air. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, rattling the glass panes. I didn't watch his car leave the driveway. I turned and walked straight up the curved staircase.
A year ago, for our sixth divorce, I hauled three stuffed suitcases to a drafty suburban apartment, desperate for his inevitable call. Five years ago, after the second, I begged for a three-thousand-a-month assistant job at his firm just to catch glimpses of him near the office copier.
Not today.
I bypassed the walk-in closet completely. The designer gowns Julian bought to make me look presentable at his corporate dinners could rot in there. I knelt by the bottom drawer of the mahogany dresser and pulled out a small black lockbox.
My thumbs spun the brass dials. Three, zero, nine. The lid popped open. Inside sat a solid gold seal, heavy and cold to the touch, bearing the crest of my actual family. My true identity. I slipped the box into my leather tote bag and zipped it shut.
The front door swung open downstairs, hitting the wall stopper with a loud bang.
Sharp stilettos snapped against the hardwood floor.
"Ugh, it smells like wet dog in here," a high-pitched voice complained.
Chloe.
She hadn't even waited for Julian to pick her up at the airport. She must have taken a private car straight here from terminal four.
I grabbed my tote and walked out to the landing.
"Are you still here?" Chloe called out, her voice echoing up the open stairwell. "Julian texted me that he kicked you out twenty minutes ago."
"Julian isn't here," I said, descending the steps. My hand glided along the smooth wooden banister.
Chloe stood in the center of the living room, shaking rain from a beige trench coat. She ran a manicured finger along the back of the Italian leather sofa and wrinkled her nose in disgust.
"This leather is completely ruined," she announced, wiping her fingertip on a tissue she pulled from her purse. "Julian promised me he'd replace this hideous furniture last time I was here. I suppose you didn't bother maintaining it while you were playing house."
"The furniture belongs to Julian," I told her, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. "Take your complaints up with him."
Chloe turned, looking me up and down with a sneer. "Don't use that tone with me. You're just a placeholder. And your time is up."
She tossed her wet coat over the back of an armchair, intentionally letting the damp fabric soak into the upholstery.
"I have to say, Serena, I admire your absolute lack of self-respect," she continued, pacing toward the kitchen island. "Most women would have given up after the third time I took him back. But you? You just keep keeping the bed warm for me."
"The bed is all yours," I replied, keeping my voice entirely flat.
"Oh, I know it is." Chloe took a step closer. Her eyes darted to my single tote bag. "Is that all you're taking? Julian said you usually pack half the house and cry on the porch. Did you finally realize none of this trash belongs to you?"
"I have exactly what I need."
"Julian told me you spent all weekend scrubbing the floors," Chloe mocked, tilting her head. "Did you think a clean house would make him forget I was coming back?"
"I clean because I prefer not to live in filth," I answered. "What Julian thinks is entirely irrelevant to me."
"Irrelevant?" Chloe laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You spent the last seven years worshipping the ground he walks on. You wore that cheap pawn shop ring like it was a diamond. Where is it, by the way? Did you finally pawn it back to buy a bus ticket out of here?"
"It's in the kitchen trash," I said. "Right where it belongs."
Chloe paused, clearly thrown off by my answer. She searched my face for the familiar tears, the begging, the desperation she had witnessed so many times before. She found nothing but cold indifference.
"You're bluffing," she sneered, stepping closer. "You're trying to act tough so I'll report back to him. You want him to think you've changed."
"I don't care what you report back to him," I said. "My relationship with Julian ended the moment he signed those papers."
"We'll see about that when your bank account runs dry," Chloe shot back, crossing her arms. "You don't have a dime to your name without him. You'll be back on this porch begging for scraps by next week."
"I wouldn't bet on it."
"Good." She leaned her weight onto one hip. "Because I'm jet-lagged, and I don't want the old maid lingering while I settle in. You finally vacated your spot. It's about time you realized you were just free labor."
"Make sure you check the corners for dust," I said, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "He hates it when you sneeze during dinner."
Chloe's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. Her jaw tightened. "Get out, Serena. Your shift as the free nanny is over."
"Gladly."
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the heavy brass house keys. I held them up, letting the metal catch the dim hallway light.
"Catch," I said.
I didn't throw them to her. I opened my fingers.
The keys hit the expensive Persian rug with a muffled thud.
Chloe glared at the floor, her nostrils flaring. She snapped her gaze back to me. "Pick those up and hand them to me properly."
"Pick them up yourself," I said, stepping past her toward the front door. "You're the lady of the house now. Act like it."
"You are pathetic!" she shouted, her voice rising in pitch. "Julian is going to laugh when I tell him you threw a fit over the keys."
I grasped the cold brass door handle. "Tell Julian whatever you want. I won't be answering his calls."
"As if he'd call you for anything other than a quick fix," Chloe scoffed, turning her back to me. She walked over to the console table where I had left a few miscellaneous items. "Leave. I need to sanitize everything you touched before he gets back."
I pulled the door open and stepped out into the storm, pulling it shut firmly behind me.
I lingered on the covered porch, pulling my umbrella from the side pocket of my tote. The rain lashed against the brick exterior, but through the large bay window, the living room was perfectly illuminated.
Chloe didn't watch me walk down the driveway. She had already moved to the hallway console, zeroing in on the velvet makeup box I had intentionally left behind.
I watched her pop the gold latch. She sifted through the discarded lipsticks and powders with a look of utter disgust, clearly hoping to find something valuable to throw away.
She ripped out the bottom velvet lining.
Her hands froze.
Even through the rain-streaked glass, I saw the color drain from her face. She pulled out a crisp, folded piece of paper from the false bottom. It was a bank statement, printed on heavy vellum.
She stared at the bold, embossed letters at the top of the page, her eyes widening as they tracked the string of zeros on the balance line.
It was the latest account summary for my top-tier black card from the Sterling conglomerate.
