At 7:00 AM, Bridget stood in the center of the living room. Her hand was wrapped in fresh white bandages.
She looked at the beige, minimalist couches and the cheap modern art. Her stomach churned with nausea.
"Irina," Bridget said, not turning around. "Call the fastest moving company in New York."
"Yes, ma'am," Irina whispered. "Which storage facility should I send the new furniture to?"
"No storage," Bridget said coldly. "Load it all into dump trucks and take it to the South Shore landfill. I want it crushed."
Three hours later, a crew of men in overalls dragged the custom-made, hundred-thousand-dollar sofas out the front door and tossed them into the back of a garbage truck.
The house was empty. It echoed. But the air finally felt clean.
Bridget's phone buzzed violently in her pocket. The screen flashed: Archer Powell.
She answered.
"Get your ass to my office in thirty minutes!" Archer's roar nearly blew out her earpiece.
Bridget changed into a sharp black Yves Saint Laurent suit. She slid on a pair of dark sunglasses and had her driver take her to the Powell Building in Manhattan.
She pushed open the heavy glass doors of the top-floor executive suite.
Jayson was sitting on the leather sofa, holding a cup of coffee, looking like a battered saint.
Archer stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He turned, grabbed an iPad from his desk, and shoved the screen toward Bridget's face. The bold black headline on Page Six screamed: CLINE WIFE GOES BERSERK, TRASHES MILLIONS IN FURNITURE.
"You are a disgrace to this family!" Archer bellowed, pointing his cigar at her face.
Bridget slowly took off her sunglasses. "He moved his mistress into my house, Dad."
"I don't care who he screws!" Archer slammed his fist on the desk. "Cline Medical goes public next month. The family trust has billions tied up in this M&A. As long as he is the CEO, you are his wife."
Bridget stared at her father. The man who had raised her.
"You're causing pre-market volatility over a petty catfight," Archer sneered. "If your sister Cheryle were in your shoes, she wouldn't be acting like a hysterical idiot. She actually went to Harvard."
The comparison hit Bridget like a physical blow to the ribs. Her breath hitched.
Jayson set his coffee down. "She's unstable, Archer. I think the crash triggered a manic episode. She needs a psychiatrist."
Archer waved his cigar dismissively. "Bridget, you will apologize to Jayson right now. And you will issue a joint PR statement welcoming Golda into your social circle."
Bridget looked at the two men. She was completely alone in this room. Her own blood had sold her out for a stock ticker.
She lowered her head. She let out a long, shaky breath, burying the absolute, murderous rage burning behind her eyes.
When she looked up, her eyes were wide and submissive.
"I'm sorry," Bridget whispered, letting her voice tremble. "I... I overreacted."
Jayson smirked, leaning back into the sofa. Archer nodded, satisfied that he had brought his useless daughter to heel.
Inside the pocket of her YSL blazer, Bridget's thumb pressed firmly down on the 'Save' button of her digital voice recorder.
