Chapter 4 of The Real Boss Was His Neglected Wife

Mafia

Dr. Hailey Hogan POV:

The sky hung low, a shade of bruised purple that seemed to mirror the bruises on my marriage.

The morning air bit against my skin, crisp and unforgiving.

But it was the driveway that commanded attention-a barricade built of Louis Vuitton trunks.

Jackson's bags.

Amber's bags.

There was enough designer leather stacked there to fund a small revolution.

I stood on the porch, the porcelain of my espresso cup warm against my palm.

I heard the rumble of the truck before I saw it.

The municipal waste management beast.

I had called in a favor.

The truck reversed up the long driveway, the beeping sound slicing through the serene morning silence like a countdown.

Two men in orange jumpsuits hopped out, looking indifferent to the opulence around them.

"This the trash, ma'am?" one asked, gesturing to the mountain of monogrammed luggage.

"Every bit of it," I said.

I watched as they heaved the trunks into the gaping maw of the compactor.

The crunch of expensive leather and reinforced plastic was the most satisfying sound I had ever heard.

The hydraulic press whined like a dying animal, crushing silk suits and stolen jewelry into an indistinguishable, compact cube of refuse.

I pulled out my phone.

I dialed Jessica.

"Do it," I said.

"Are you sure, Hailey?" Jessica asked, her voice professional but laced with hesitation. "Once I file the motion, the assets freeze immediately. Their cards will decline. The utilities at the compound will be cut."

"Burn it to the ground," I said.

"Copy that. Divorce filed. Restraining orders issued. Accounts locked."

I hung up.

I walked to my car.

I didn't look back at the house. There was nothing there but ghosts.

I drove to the private airstrip.

Pierre, my pilot, was waiting by the smaller, faster Citation jet I kept for emergencies.

"Destination, Dr. Hogan?"

"St. Barts," I said. "But the private island. Not the villa."

I boarded the plane.

We were cruising at thirty thousand feet when my phone rang.

Jackson.

I answered on the second ring.

"Hailey! Where the hell are you?" he screamed. "The charter isn't here! We're at the airport and there's no plane!"

"I know," I said, idly swirling the champagne in my flute.

"And where are our bags? The driveway is empty!"

"The trash came early today," I said calmly.

There was a silence on the line.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

"What did you do?" he whispered.

"I took out the garbage, Jackson."

"Hailey, listen to me. Fix this. Get the plane back here. My mother is waiting in St. Barts. I have to get there."

"Buy a ticket," I suggested.

"My card was declined!" he roared, the panic finally cracking his voice. "I tried to buy coffee and it was declined! What did you do to the accounts?"

"Those are my accounts, Jackson. You were just an authorized user."

"I'm your husband!"

"Not anymore. Check your email. Jessica just sent the papers."

"You can't do this," he stammered. "We're family. Omertà, Hailey! You swore an oath of loyalty!"

"Loyalty is a currency you spent a long time ago," I said. "You chose the mistress. Let her pay for the flight."

"She doesn't have any money!"

"Then I guess you're walking."

"Hailey, please. Don't do this. I love you."

I laughed.

It was a genuine laugh, bright and sharp.

"No, Jackson. You love the lifestyle. And the lifestyle just left you."

"Hailey-"