Chapter 4 - The Woman Behind the Curtain
The folder contained hundreds of files.
Bank records. Emails. Photographs. A spreadsheet titled “Clara’s Assets – Liquidation Timeline.”
I sat down in Julian’s leather chair, my hands steady on the mouse, and began to read.
The spreadsheet was a masterpiece of cruelty. It listed every single thing I owned: the house, my car, my jewelry, my art collection, my retirement accounts, even the $20,000 violin my dad had given me when I was sixteen. Next to each item was a date, a projected sale price, and a note about where the money would go.
House – 08/15 –
$2.1M – to Hale Holdings LLC (Julian’s new company)*
*Jewelry – 08/20 – $185k – to Vivian (engagement ring + “severance”)
Violin – 09/01 – $45k – to private collector (cash, untraceable)
Severance, I thought, staring at the word. Vivian wasn’t just his mistress. She was his partner in crime. And she was getting paid well for it.
I opened the email folder next.
The earliest message was from eighteen months ago.
From: Julian Hale [email protected]
To: Vivian Drake [email protected]
Subject: Re: The Plan
She’s so predictable. I mentioned “trouble at work” last night and she immediately offered to refinance the house. Didn’t even hesitate. Said she “just wants me to be happy.” It’s almost too easy. Sometimes I feel bad. Then I remember who I’m doing this for. Us. Our future.
I scrolled further.
From: Vivian Drake
To: Julian Hale
Subject: Re: Re: The Plan
Don’t get soft on me, Julian. Remember what we talked about. She’s a means to an end. Nice enough, I guess, but weak. You deserve someone who can keep up with you. Someone who gets business. Once the house is free and clear and the company is yours, we can be together properly. No more hiding. No more sneaking around. Just think—six more months and she’s history.
Six more months.
They’d been talking about this for eighteen months. A year and a half of Julian coming home to me, kissing me, telling me he loved me, while every single day he was plotting my destruction with the woman who sat three desks away from him at the office.
I kept scrolling.
And then I found it.
An email from Vivian to her sister, sent six months ago, accidentally CC’d to the company’s general info account—which Julian, in his arrogance, had never bothered to check.
From: Vivian Drake
To: Marnie Drake
Subject: You will NOT believe this
So remember that guy I told you about? The rich one with the stupid wife? It’s working. Better than we ever thought. He’s completely wrapped around my finger. Thinks I’m in love with him. Please. I’ve already done this twice before. Men like him—they all think they’re different. They all think they’re the exception. Three more months and I walk away with at least a million. Maybe two. And the best part? The wife has NO idea. She still brings me cookies at the office. Calls me “hon.” It’s pathetic. But hey—if she’s dumb enough to trust him, she deserves what she gets.
I sat back, staring at the screen.
Done this twice before.
Vivian wasn’t just a mistress. She was a professional. A serial black widow who targeted married men with money, helped them drain their wives’ accounts, then vanished into the wind with her cut.
I did a quick search of her name.
The first result was a news article from three years ago, out of Seattle.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN DIES IN MYSTERIOUS BOATING ACCIDENT; WIDOW INHERITS $2.5M ESTATE
The widow’s name? Vivian Drake.
The second result was from five years ago, Portland.
COUPLE’S “HAPPILY EVER AFTER” ENDS IN DIVORCE; EX-WIFE AWARDED 80% OF MARITAL ASSETS AFTER “IRREFUTABLE EVIDENCE” OF HUSBAND’S FRAUD
The “other woman” in the case, though never named in the article, was described as a “tall brunette administrative assistant with a background in finance.”
Vivian.
I printed every email. Every spreadsheet. Every news article. I scanned them all to my encrypted cloud accounts, then slipped the paper copies into a manila envelope I’d hidden in the lining of my old winter coat—the one in the back of the closet Julian never touched.
Then I closed his computer, locked the office door, and went back to bed.
Julian was still asleep, his face turned toward the window, looking innocent as a child. I climbed in beside him, pulling the covers up to my chin.
He stirred, half-waking, and mumbled something.
“Mmm… Viv…”
My blood turned to ice.
He’d moaned her name. In his sleep. In our bed.
May you like
I lay perfectly still for a long time. Then I reached out, brushed the hair off his forehead, and whispered, so quiet he couldn’t possibly hear:
“Sleep well, Julian. You’re going to need your strength for what’s coming.”
