The lobby of Kennedy Tower was designed to intimidate. The vaulted ceilings and polished granite floors magnified every sound, turning whispers into echoes and shouts into thunder. From the glass-walled mezzanine, I watched the storm brewing below.
Bonnie Phillips stood at the reception desk, her voice shrill enough to cut through the ambient hum of the busy morning. She was wearing a white dress—an aggressive, bridal choice for a Tuesday morning confrontation.
"I don't need an appointment!" Bonnie slammed her hand on the marble counter. "I am family! I am the real Mrs. Edwards in every way that matters. That woman upstairs is just a contract wife!"
The receptionist, a young woman named Sarah, looked terrified, her eyes darting toward the security guards who were hesitating, unsure of the protocol for a mistress claiming spiritual sovereignty.
I pressed the intercom button on the railing, my voice projecting calmly through the lobby speakers. "Security."
The entire floor froze. Bonnie’s head snapped up, her eyes locking onto my silhouette against the light.
"Iris!" she shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at me. "Tell them! Tell them Lorenzo and I are the true partnership here!"
I didn't address her. I looked directly at the head of security. "This woman is trespassing. She has no appointment, no clearance, and no relation to Kennedy Enterprises. Remove her."
"You can't!" Bonnie gasped as two guards stepped forward. "Lorenzo will fire all of you!"
"And if she resists," I added, my tone bored, "call the NYPD. Make sure the police report notes her mental instability. It might help her defense later."
Bonnie’s face crumpled from arrogance to shock. As the guards gripped her elbows, she began to wail, a raw, ugly sound that drew the attention of every client and employee in the vicinity. I turned my back before they dragged her through the revolving doors. She wasn't worth the view.
Two hours later, I returned to the penthouse. I wasn't there to salvage the marriage; I was there for the only thing that mattered. I had a team of movers on standby in the service elevator, but I needed to secure Atlas’s shell personally. I wouldn't let them turn my family’s history into a prop for their twisted domestic theater.
The apartment was quiet, but the air felt heavy, tainted. I walked past the living room, noting the empty spot on the coffee table where the taxidermied shell had been. A sick feeling coiled in my gut, pulling me toward the master suite.
The door was ajar.
I didn't push it open. I didn't have to. Through the gap, I saw the tangle of limbs on the Egyptian cotton sheets I had selected for our anniversary. Lorenzo was on his back, eyes closed, with Bonnie curled into his side, her head resting on his chest. They looked comfortable. Settled.
I pushed the door wide open. It hit the stopper with a dull thud.
Lorenzo jolted, scrambling to pull the sheet up, while Bonnie let out a small, theatrical squeak, making no real effort to cover herself. She smirked, a quick flash of teeth before masking it with feigned surprise.
"Iris?" Lorenzo blinked, his face flushing. Then, the shock settled into a frown of annoyance. "You have a key?"
"It is my name on the deed, Lorenzo," I said. My voice was steady, but my hands were fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
He sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Look, this... this is actually good. We can stop pretending. Bonnie and I... we have a connection, Iris. It's transcendent. You can't legislate love."
"Transcendent," I repeated, the word tasting like bile.
"We want you to be mature about this," Bonnie chimed in, resting her chin on Lorenzo’s shoulder. "We know you need the marriage for the business merger. Lorenzo is willing to stay married to you on paper. An open arrangement. You keep the status, we keep the love. It’s a win-win."
The sheer delusion was almost impressive. They genuinely believed I was a prop in their reality, a bank account with a pulse.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I pulled my phone from my blazer pocket.
"What are you doing?" Lorenzo demanded, sitting up straighter.
*Click.*
The flash was blinding in the dim room. I took another. And a third.
"That's illegal!" Bonnie screeched, finally grabbing a pillow to cover herself.
"It's evidence," I corrected, sliding the phone back into my pocket. "For the divorce filing. Irreconcilable differences. Adultery. And given the state of you two, likely public indecency."
"You won't file," Lorenzo scoffed, though his confidence was wavering. "The scandal would tank your stock."
"Watch me."
I turned on my heel and walked out, leaving them in the wreckage of their 'transcendent' affair.
In the hallway, I found Atlas’s shell. It had been shoved into a coat closet, discarded like an old umbrella. I lifted the heavy, varnished weight of it, the gold filigree cold against my skin. It was a grotesque monument to my blindness, but I would not leave him behind.
In the elevator, I dialed Victoria.
" serve him," I said, staring at my reflection in the brass doors. "Now."
"The papers are already with the courier," Victoria replied, her voice sharp as a razor. "And the photos?"
"I have the adultery evidence," I said. "But don't release those yet. The public expects a billionaire to cheat. It's a cliché."
I looked down at the mutilated shell in my arms.
"Leak the photo of the tortoise," I ordered. "Send it to every animal rights organization, every eco-blog, and the city papers. Caption it with Lorenzo’s quote about 'art.'"
"Vicious," Victoria said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "He'll be a pariah by dinner."
"He wanted to be unique," I whispered as the elevator doors opened to the lobby. "Now he is."
