The Psycho Wife’s Final Revenge

"Two past due notices," Mark announced, tossing the red-stamped envelopes onto the kitchen island.

I poured my black coffee, keeping my eyes on the steaming liquid. "The bills go to you now."

"Water and power, Claire." He slammed his palm flat against the granite countertop. "Are you insane? They’re threatening to shut us off on Wednesday."

"Then you should pay them by Tuesday."

"You're suffocating this family," Mark snapped. He paced the short length of the kitchen. "You create this toxic atmosphere because you have to control absolutely everything. It’s sick."

I took a sip from my mug. "A toxic atmosphere?"

"Yes!" He pointed an accusing finger at me. "You’re starving your own children. You’re freezing me out over a bad mood. You act so domineering that no one even wants to be in the same room as you."

I picked up the credit card statement I had printed last night. I slid the paper across the stone surface until it bumped against his knuckles.

"Explain the Chanel charge," I demanded. "Six thousand dollars on Tuesday."

Mark’s gaze dropped to the itemized line. The vein in his neck pulsed rapidly.

"It's a client gift," he shot back, his voice rising an octave to cover his panic.

"A handbag for a corporate client?"

"It's standard relationship management!" Mark dragged a hand through his hair. "I told you I'm closing a major deal. I have to spend money to make money. You wouldn't understand, since you just sit on a trust fund."

"You bought a twenty-two-year-old girl a purse with my money."

"Her name is Chloe," Mark barked. "And she works for me. She secured the Anderson account."

"The Anderson account went bankrupt three months ago."

Mark's face flushed a deep crimson. "You don't know anything about my business operations."

"I know you spent six thousand dollars on designer leather while the water company is threatening to shut off our pipes."

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Leo dragged his feet into the kitchen, his baseball backpack slung over one shoulder. Mia trailed closely behind him, her eyes glued to her phone screen.

"Why are you screaming at him?" Leo asked, dropping his bag onto the tile floor.

"Your father is explaining his business expenses," I told my son.

Leo rolled his eyes. "Mom, you literally have millions. Stop being so cheap."

"Cheap?" I asked, my voice dropping.

"Yeah. You always interrogate Dad about money. It's embarrassing." Leo crossed his arms. "And you didn't even wash my uniform. I have a game in three hours."

"The washing machine works fine, Leo. You know how to use it."

"I don't have time!" Leo shouted. "Dad works hard to keep this family normal, and you just ruin everything. Just pay the stupid electric bill so I can play Xbox tonight."

"Is anyone going to take me to the mall?" Mia complained, finally looking up from her screen. "Chloe said she'd take me shopping today."

My fingers tightened around the handle of my coffee mug. "Chloe?"

Mark turned pale. "Mia, go upstairs."

"But Dad, she promised!" Mia whined. "She said we could go to Sephora."

I looked at Mark. "You introduced your mistress to our daughter?"

"She's my consultant!" Mark yelled. "She was just being nice to the kids!"

Leo scoffed, stepping closer to his father. "Chloe is cool. She actually listens to us. Not like you."

I stared at my fifteen-year-old son, and then at my twelve-year-old daughter.

I expected to feel a crushing weight in my chest. I thought a maternal urge to explain myself would rise up, or at least the sting of tears.

Instead, a short, dry laugh escaped my throat.

Mark flinched.

Leo frowned, stepping back. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, Leo," I answered.

The boy I had raised, the child I had hired tutors for and stayed up nights worrying over, had made his choice. In his place stood a miniature version of Mark. Entitled. Selfish. Blind.

I closed my MacBook and tucked it under my arm.

"Where are you going?" Mark demanded, stepping into my path to block the doorway.

"Out."

"We aren't done talking about this!"

"We are." I bypassed him entirely, heading straight for the garage door.

"If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back for dinner!" Mark yelled after me.

I didn't answer. I pressed the button for the garage, got into my SUV, and drove away.

The drive into Manhattan took forty minutes. I ignored the city traffic, my mind locked onto the files saved on my hard drive.

The glass doors of the law firm slid open, welcoming me into a pristine lobby.

I walked up to the marble reception desk and dropped a thick manila envelope onto the smooth surface.

"Good morning," the receptionist greeted, her smile perfectly practiced. "Do you have an appointment?"

"I need a lawyer. Today."

She typed rapidly on her keyboard. "I can see if Mr. Dunn is available for a consultation. He handles our standard family law filings."

"No," I corrected. "I want Julian Hayes."

The receptionist stopped typing. "Mr. Hayes is a senior partner. He only takes high-net-worth cases, and he requires a referral."

"Tell him Claire Vance is here."

"Ma'am, I can't just interrupt—"

"Open the envelope," I instructed.

She hesitated, then peeled back the metal clasp. She pulled out the bank statements, the deed of property transfer, and the equity logs.

"Take those pages to his office," I said. "Tell him my husband is attempting to transfer two and a half million dollars in marital assets to a twenty-two-year-old consultant."

The receptionist swallowed hard, her eyes widening at the numbers on the top page. "Please have a seat."

She hurried down the glass-walled corridor.

I didn't sit. I paced near the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the yellow cabs crawl along the avenue below.

Ten minutes later, a paralegal approached me. She escorted me into a corner office overlooking the skyline.

Julian Hayes sat behind a massive walnut desk. He didn't offer a polite smile or a handshake.

He just stared at the open folder in front of him.

"Mrs. Vance," Julian began, his voice a low baritone. "You compiled these records yourself?"

"I did."

"You accessed his corporate accounts?"

"My name is still listed as a guarantor on the business loan. I pulled the data this morning."

Julian flipped to the second page. His eyes scanned the highlighted rows.

He tapped a silver pen against the wood. Once. Twice.

Then, he reached out and pressed the intercom button on his desk phone.

"Sarah," Julian ordered into the speaker. "Cancel my eleven o'clock. And lock the doors to the conference room."

"Right away, Mr. Hayes," the speaker crackled.

Julian released the button and looked up, his gaze locking onto mine.

"Mrs. Vance," he murmured, sliding the property deed across the desk. "Did you actually read the fine print on this transfer?"

"I saw the title change."

"Then you missed the liability clause," Julian stated. He tapped the bottom corner of the document. "Your husband isn't just giving his mistress a house. He just triggered a federal audit on your entire company."