When His Mistress Called Thugs on the Real Wife

The locksmith's drill whined in the quiet morning air. I stood on the sidewalk in front of 428 West 17th Street and watched him work. Miles stood beside me with his briefcase and his camera.

"All legal," he said. "Deed's in your name. Court order's filed. You're the owner."

I nodded. I didn't feel triumphant. I felt cold.

The lock clicked. The locksmith stepped back and handed me a new key.

"All yours," he said.

I walked up the steps. I put the key in the lock. I turned it.

The door opened.

I stepped inside.

The foyer was bright. Sunlight poured through tall windows. The floors were polished. The walls were painted cream. It looked nothing like the place I remembered.

I walked through the rooms slowly. Miles followed with his camera, documenting everything.

The living room was full of white furniture. Glass tables. Abstract art on the walls. Everything looked expensive and empty.

I climbed the stairs. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. I pushed open the door.

It was Dior's shrine.

Shelves lined the walls, filled with handbags — Hermès, Chanel, Louis Vuitton. The closet doors stood open, revealing rows of gowns and shoes. A vanity table sat by the window, covered in perfume bottles and jewelry boxes.

I stood there and looked at it all. Every piece of it bought with money that had been mine.

I walked to the closet. I pulled out a trash bag from the box Miles had brought. I opened it.

I started with the handbags.

I pulled them off the shelves one by one. I didn't throw them. I just placed them in the bag. Methodically. Carefully. Miles took photos from the doorway.

I moved to the closet. Gowns slid off hangers. Shoes tumbled into bags. I cleared shelf after shelf.

I wasn't angry. I wasn't sad. I was just clearing space.

Behind me, Miles's camera clicked steadily.

I was halfway through the second closet when I heard the front door slam open downstairs.

"What the hell is going on?" Dior's voice echoed up the stairs. "Who changed the locks? Who authorized this?"

I kept working. I heard her footsteps on the stairs. Fast. Hard.

She appeared in the doorway. Her face was flushed. Her hair was pulled back tight. She saw the bags on the floor and her mouth opened.

"What are you doing?" she screamed.

I set down another bag. I turned to face her.

"Clearing my house," I said.

Dior rushed forward. She grabbed one of the bags and tried to pull it away. "You can't do this. This is my home. These are my things."

Miles stepped forward. "Ma'am, you need to step back. Ms. Tucker is the legal owner of this property. You're trespassing."

Dior spun on him. "Legal owner? Are you insane? Damian owns this place. He bought it. He gave it to me."

"He didn't buy it," I said. "I did. Eight years ago. With my money. The deed has my name on it. It always has."

Dior's eyes were wild. "You're lying."

I pulled the deed from my bag and held it up. "Read it."

She stared at the paper. Her hands shook. Then she lunged for another bag.

I stepped in front of her. "Don't."

"Get out of my way," she hissed.

"This isn't your house," I said. "It never was."

Dior shoved me. I stumbled back a step. Miles moved forward, but I held up a hand.

"You need to leave," I said to Dior. My voice was calm. Steady. "Now."

Dior's face twisted. She pulled out her phone. Her fingers jabbed at the screen.

"Tyson," she said when someone answered. Her voice was high. Frantic. "I need you at the brownstone. Now. Bring your people. There's someone here who won't leave and I need her removed. Physically if you have to."

She listened. Then: "I don't care. Just get here. Now."

She hung up. She looked at me with something like triumph.

"You have ten minutes to get out," she said. "Or Tyson's going to make you."

I looked at Miles. He was already texting someone.

I looked back at Dior. "I'm not going anywhere."

She laughed. It sounded unhinged. "You think you're so tough. You think you can just walk in here and take everything. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"I know exactly who I'm dealing with," I said.

Dior stepped closer. Her face was inches from mine. "You're nothing," she whispered. "You were nothing eight years ago and you're nothing now. Damian threw you away like garbage. And when Tyson gets here, you're going to wish you'd stayed in whatever pathetic little town you crawled out of."

I didn't blink. "We'll see."

Downstairs, I heard the front door open. Heavy footsteps. Voices. Men's voices.

Dior smiled. "That's Tyson."

I stayed exactly where I was.

Footsteps climbed the stairs. Three men appeared in the doorway. The one in front was big. Broad shoulders. Shaved head. He looked at Dior.

"What's the problem?" he asked.

Dior pointed at me. "Her. She broke in. She's stealing my things. I want her out."

Tyson looked at me. His eyes moved over me slowly. Assessing.

"You need to leave," he said. His voice was flat.

"No," I said.

He stepped forward. "I'm not asking."

Miles moved between us. "Sir, this woman is the legal property owner. You're threatening her in her own home. I'm documenting everything."

Tyson glanced at Miles. Then back at me. "I don't care about paperwork. Dior called me. I'm here for her."

"Then you made a mistake," I said.

Tyson's jaw tightened. He took another step.

That's when I heard it.

Car doors. Multiple. Outside.

Tyson heard it too. He frowned and walked to the window.

I followed his gaze.

Three black SUVs had pulled up in front of the brownstone. Doors opened. Men in dark suits stepped out.

And then, from the lead vehicle, Arthur Warren emerged.

He stood on the sidewalk in a charcoal coat, his hands in his pockets, and looked up at the window.

Tyson went pale.

"Oh God," he whispered.