Chapter 6 - The Midnight Visitor
The rain began to fall late that evening,
drumming a steady,
relentless rhythm against the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse apartment.
I sat alone in the living room with a glass of red wine,
watching the distant lights of the Dallas skyline blur through the streaming water on the glass.
The house was too quiet.
Nine years of shared life distilled down to empty rooms,
frozen bank accounts,
and a pile of legal briefs.
Suddenly,
the low chime of the downstairs security intercom broke the silence.
I frowned,
glancing at the wall clock.
It was eleven-forty at night.
I pressed the video feed button.
On the small screen,
standing beneath the overhang of the lobby entrance,
was Clare Bennett.
She looked unraveled.
Her hair was damp from the rain,
her expensive cashmere coat soaked through,
and the fierce,
composed confidence she had worn in the boardroom had completely vanished.
She looked terrified.
I pressed the talk button.
“You have a great deal of nerve showing up here,
Clare.”
“Valentina,
please,
” her voice crackled through the speaker,
thin and desperate.
“Just let me up for ten minutes.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“There is nothing you can possibly say that I want to hear.”
“It’s about Daniel,
” she pleaded,
tears visibly mixing with the rainwater on her face.
“He’s losing his mind.”
“He’s threatening things.”
“He blames you for ruining his life,
and I’m scared for my son.”
I stared at her image on the screen for a long,
silent moment.
Part of me wanted nothing more than to press the buzzer,
let her feel the full weight of my contempt,
and slam the door in her face.
Another part—the pragmatic strategist who wanted every piece of the puzzle—knew that desperate people made mistakes.
And desperate mistresses made the best witnesses.
“Come up,
” I said coldly,
and released the lobby lock.
Five minutes later,
the private elevator chimed and the doors slid open.
Clare stepped into my foyer,
shivering and clutching her soaked handbag against her chest.
She looked around the immaculate,
minimalist apartment as if she were entering a cage.
“Sit,
” I said,
gesturing toward a leather armchair while I remained standing by the window with my glass of wine.
She sat down gingerly,
her hands trembling as she tried to catch her breath.
“He lied to me,
” Clare blurted out before I could even ask a question.
“Daniel told me you two were getting a quiet divorce.”
“He told me your marriage had been over for years and you were just waiting for the right public moment to announce it.”
I let out a cold,
sharp laugh.
“And you believed him?”
“Why wouldn't I?” she cried,
her voice rising in defensive panic.
“He bought me a house.”
May you like
“He provided for Leo.”
“He promised we would be a real family once the company went public on the national exchange.”
