The Unwanted Wife's Secret Genius Identity

The driver's side door of the Maybach opened. An older man in a pristine tailored suit stepped out into the mud. Arthur Finch, the Hughes family butler, ignored the filth around him. He walked straight to Catherine and bowed his head slightly. "Mrs. Hughes," Arthur said, his voice perfectly modulated. Dale and Brenda rushed forward, their faces stretched into greedy smiles, trying to shake Arthur's hand. Two massive bodyguards stepped out from behind the car and shoved them back. Catherine did not move toward the open car door. She turned around and stared dead into Dale's eyes. She held out her hand. "The deed to the botanical garden," Catherine said. Her voice was low, stripped of all its usual trembling. Dale blinked, trying to force a laugh. "It's in the bank vault, sweetheart. We'll get it to you later." Catherine reached into her cheap canvas backpack. She pulled out a thick manila envelope and held it up. "You thought I spent the last three years just taking your abuse in silence? I've been collecting this. Every dirty dollar Jenna hid." "These are the offshore routing numbers for Jenna's tax fraud over the last three years," Catherine said, her tone like crushed ice. "Give me the deed right now, or I send this to the IRS. Jenna will be in federal prison by Tuesday." Jenna shrieked. She hid behind Brenda, screaming that Catherine was a lying bitch. Brenda's face went purple with rage. She raised her hand and swung it hard toward Catherine's face. Catherine did not flinch. Her hand shot up. She caught Brenda's wrist in mid-air. Her thumb pressed brutally into the bundle of nerves between the bones. Brenda let out a high-pitched scream. The bones in her wrist ground together audibly. By the Maybach, Arthur stood perfectly still. His eyes tracked Catherine's movement. A flicker of surprise and deep calculation crossed his stoic face. Dale panicked. He saw the cold, dead look in Catherine's eyes and knew she was not bluffing. He turned and sprinted back into the trailer. Two minutes later, he ran back out, clutching a yellowed parchment document. He slammed it into Catherine's open palm. Catherine checked the embossed state seal and her grandfather's signature. It was authentic. She folded it carefully and slid it into the inner pocket of her jacket. She released Brenda's wrist. She tore the tax documents into tiny shreds and let them fall into the mud at Jenna's feet. Without looking back at the people who had tormented her for years, Catherine turned and walked to the Maybach. Arthur held the heavy armored door open. She slid into the plush leather seat. The door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the screaming from the trailer park. The interior smelled of expensive cedar and leather. The Maybach pulled away, speeding toward the Manhattan skyline. Arthur handed a thick, leather-bound binder over the seat. "Mr. Hughes's behavioral protocols, madam," Arthur said. Catherine opened the binder. The first rule was printed in bold red ink: Absolutely no perfumes, and absolutely no sudden noises in his presence. Her medical mind processed the information. Hyperacusis and olfactory sensitivity. Classic symptoms of severe post-traumatic stress disorder. Two hours later, the car descended into the private underground garage of a heavily fortified skyscraper on the Upper East Side. A private elevator shot them directly to the penthouse. The doors opened to a massive, sterile living space. Everything was black, white, and steel. It looked less like a home and more like a high-tech fortress. Arthur led her down a long hallway and stopped in front of a thick, soundproofed door. "The master is in a foul mood today," Arthur warned quietly. "Tread lightly." Catherine took a breath. She grabbed the cold metal handle and pushed the heavy door open. The soft hum of motorized wheelchair wheels rolled across the thick wool carpet. A man sat with his back to her, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.