Chapter 5 - The Day the Music Died
The next morning, Julian left early—“to finalize the last of the paperwork with the investors,” he said, kissing me goodbye at the door.
The second he was gone, I called Marcus.
“I need you to look into someone,” I said. “Vivian Drake. She’s Julian’s administrative assistant at Hale Tech. I’m sending you everything I have—emails, news articles, bank records. She’s done this before. Twice that I can prove. Possibly more.”
Marcus was silent for ten seconds. “You found this where?”
“In Julian’s office last night. He keeps all of it in a folder labeled ‘Tax Documents.’ He’s arrogant, Marcus. He never thought I’d look.”
“Good. Arrogance is the best weapon we have against him. Send me everything. I’ll have my forensic team go through it line by line. And Clara?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever you do—don’t let him know you’re onto him. Not yet. We need him to commit the final act. We need him to actually file those papers. Until then, you’re the loving, clueless wife. Understood?”
“Understood.”
I hung up and called Lila.
“Meet me at the house,” I said. “Bring your laptop. And that bottle of tequila we’ve been saving for the end of the world.”
An hour later, we were sitting at my dad’s dining room table, tequila shots in front of us, spreadsheets covering every inch of wood.
“Okay,” Lila said, tapping a line on the Liquidation Timeline. “So Julian plans to file for divorce on August 15—the same day the house sale is supposed to close. He’s going to serve you with papers at the art gallery, in front of all your clients and coworkers. Maximum humiliation. Then he’s going to hit you with the embezzlement claims. By the time you recover enough to fight back, the money’s gone, the house is sold, the company is his, and you’re living in a motel somewhere eating ramen.”
“Charming,” I said.
“The good news is,” Lila said, sliding another paper across the table, “we have the recording. We have the forged consent form. We have the emails proving conspiracy. And now—thanks to your late-night hacking session—we have proof Vivian is a professional con artist with a documented history of doing exactly this.”
“Marcus says we need to wait,” I said. “Let him file. Let him commit. Then we strike.”
Lila poured another shot. “Marcus is a smart man. But I say we hit him with something first. Something that makes him sweat. Something that tells him—without telling him—that his perfect plan isn’t quite as perfect as he thinks.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”
Lila smiled. It was not a nice smile.
“Julian is having his ‘big company celebration’ tonight at the Four Seasons, right? All the investors. All the employees. Vivian will be there, hanging on his arm, playing the adoring colleague while you stay home ‘sick with a migraine.’”
“Yeah. He told me about it yesterday. Said it was ‘just business’ and that I ‘wouldn’t enjoy it anyway.’”
“Perfect,” Lila said, pulling out her phone. “Because I just got an invitation too. My firm is one of the ‘minority investors’ Julian has been courting. RSVP’d last week. Said I’d be bringing a plus-one.”
She looked at me.
I felt a slow grin spread across my face.
“Lila,” I said. “You are evil. I love you.”
Three hours later, I was standing in front of my closet, wearing the red dress—the one I’d bought for our fifth anniversary, the one Julian had said made me look “like a movie star.” My hair was down in loose waves. My makeup was perfect—smoky eyes, red lipstick, just enough contour to make my cheekbones look sharp enough to cut glass.
I looked in the mirror.
I barely recognized myself.
The old Clara—soft, sweet, trusting Clara—was gone. In her place was someone harder. Sharper. Dangerous.
“You ready?” Lila called from the bedroom.
I picked up my clutch. Inside was my phone, fully charged, ready to record. And tucked in the lining was a small, folded piece of paper—the original real shareholder agreement, the one Julian thought I’d destroyed.
“Born ready,” I said.
The ballroom at the Four Seasons was packed when we arrived. Champagne flutes circulated on silver trays. A string quartet played in the corner. And there, at the center of the room, standing on a small stage, was Julian.
He was wearing the tuxedo I’d bought him for the gala last spring. And Vivian was at his side—wearing a cream dress that matched the coat she’d had on at the airport, her hand resting on his arm exactly the way it had been that morning.
They looked perfect together. Rich. Successful. Happy.
Julian was speaking into a microphone, thanking everyone for coming, talking about “vision” and “hard work” and “the incredible team that made this possible.” He didn’t mention me. Not once.
Lila and I slipped into the back of the room, blending into the crowd. I grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to her.
“Wait for it,” Lila murmured.
Julian finished his speech to polite applause. He stepped off the stage and turned toward Vivian, opening his mouth to say something—
And then his eyes found me.
He froze.
The champagne flute in his hand tilted. A drop of golden liquid spilled over the edge onto his tuxedo jacket. He didn’t notice. His face went white. Then red. Then a strange, mottled purple.
Vivian followed his gaze.
Her smile faltered. Just for a second. But I saw it.
Julian recovered quickly—too quickly. He forced a laugh, said something to Vivian, and started making his way through the crowd toward us, his smile so tight it looked painful.
“Clara!” he said, when he reached us. He kissed my cheek—too hard, too fast. “What are you doing here, baby? You said you had a migraine! I was going to bring you home some cake.”
I let him kiss me. I even rested my hand on his chest—right over his heart, which I could feel hammering beneath my palm.
“The migraine went away,” I said, loud enough for the three people standing closest to us to hear. “Lila had an extra ticket, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of missing my husband’s big night. After all—this is our victory, isn’t it, Jules? Everything we’ve worked for, together.”
I put just the right amount of emphasis on together.
Julian’s eyes darted to Vivian, who was now standing ten feet away, watching us with a fake smile plastered on her face.
“Of course,” he said, his voice strained. “Everything. Together. Baby, this is my colleague, Vivian Drake. Vivian, you remember my wife, Clara.”
Vivian stepped forward, extending a perfectly manicured hand. Her nails were painted the exact same shade of red as my dress.
“Of course I remember Clara,” she purred. “You make the best chocolate chip cookies. The whole office looks forward to them.”
I took her hand. Her grip was firm. Calculated.
“I’m so glad,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Julian tells me you’re invaluable to the company. Says he doesn’t know what he’d do without you. Isn’t that right, honey?”
I turned to Julian.
He was sweating now. A single bead rolled down his temple.
“Uh—yes,” he stammered. “Vivian is… very good at her job.”
“I bet she is,” I said, keeping my eyes locked on Vivian’s. “I bet she’s very good at getting exactly what she wants.”
The air between us crackled. Vivian’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes—cold, brown, empty—told me everything I needed to know.
She knew I knew.
May you like
And I knew she knew.
It was on.
