Chapter 3 - The Mask Crumbles
For two years, I had deliberately played the role of the quiet, accommodating wife.
When I married Dalton, I was exhausted by the relentless cutthroat nature of the high-end design world. I wanted a quiet life. I wanted a family. So when Dalton suggested that I keep my little "freelance design hobby" small so I wouldn't stress myself out, I let him believe I was earning peanuts. When Constance made snide remarks about my modest background and my lack of a trust fund, I smiled, swallowed my pride, and passed the potatoes.
They mistook my gentleness for weakness. They mistook my silence for submission.
At 8:00 AM the morning after I was thrown out, I was sitting in Marcus Vance’s corner office on the 44th floor of the Willis Tower. I was wearing a tailored charcoal cashmere suit, my hair pulled back into a sleek bun, and dark circles under my eyes disguised by professional makeup. Next to me sat a professional night nurse I had hired to care for Ezra and Elowen in the adjoining private waiting room.
"The police report is filed," Marcus said, sliding a pen across his mahogany desk. "We filed charges for domestic endangerment, child abandonment, and criminal trespass. Given the temperature last night—it dropped to minus four with the windchill—the state's attorney is going to take a very keen interest in Constance Pierce."
"And the house?" I asked.
"Aegis Trust owns the deed outright," Marcus smiled dryly. "There is no lease agreement. Dalton and Constance were residing there under a revocable license of occupancy granted by the trust. By throwing the primary trustee—you—out of the property, they violated the terms of the occupancy license. I have signed an emergency order of possession. The Cook County Sheriff will be at 1420 North Astor Street at precisely 1:00 PM today to enforce the vacate order."
"What about Dalton's finances?"
Marcus pulled up a tablet and flipped through a series of financial audits. "It’s worse than you thought, Brier. Dalton’s architectural firm, Pierce & Associates, is completely bankrupt. He’s been funneling money out of your joint household account to cover his payroll. Furthermore, his mother owes over $300,000 in personal gambling debts to country club associates. They were banking entirely on Dalton inheriting his late father's estate—unaware that the estate was entirely liquidated years ago to pay off debts."
I leaned back in the leather chair. "So they thought if they got rid of me, Dalton could remarry someone with money?"
"Precisely," Marcus said. "Constance has been actively parading Dalton around social events with Victoria Sterling, the heiress to the Sterling Logistics fortune. In fact, my investigators noted that Victoria spent the weekend at the Astor Street house while you were in labor."
A sharp, cold pain hit my chest, but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by pure armor.
While I was lying in a hospital bed bleeding, holding their grand-babies, Dalton was bringing another woman into the house I paid for.
"Let's move forward with phase two," I said quietly.
"Are you sure?" Marcus asked softly. "Once we release the corporate disclosures, Ren Ashford’s real identity will be public knowledge. The press will go wild."
"Let them," I replied. "It’s time Constance Pierce learns who was actually buying her pearl earrings."
Meanwhile, back at 1420 North Astor Street, Constance was pouring herself an espresso in the Italian marble kitchen I had custom-commissioned from Florence.
Dalton was sitting at the breakfast bar, nursing a hangover and staring blankly at his phone.
"Stop moping, Dalton," Constance snapped, setting her cup down on the quartz counter. "She was a nobody from the south side. She had no family, no connections, and no money. You need a real partner if you’re going to save the firm. Victoria’s father can open doors in New York."
"She had the babies with her, Mom," Dalton mumbled, a twinge of guilt finally piercing through his fog. "It was negative five degrees outside."
"She’ll go to a shelter or call a taxi to some cheap motel," Constance dismissed with a wave of her manicured hand. "She’ll come crawling back in a few days, begging for a settlement. And when she does, we’ll hand her a non-disclosure agreement and a check for fifty thousand dollars to give up full custody. You don't need a penniless freelancer dragging down your reputation."
At that exact moment, the doorbell rang. Not a polite ring, but a heavy, rhythmic pounding that rattled the stained-glass panels of the front door.
Constance frowned. "Who on earth is making that racket at this hour?"
She walked down the hallway, adjusted her cardigan, and opened the door, fully expecting to scold a courier or delivery driver.
Standing on the porch were four uniformed Cook County Sheriff’s deputies, accompanied by a locksmith and two men in suits carrying clipboards.
"Can I help you?" Constance asked, her voice dripping with condescension.
The lead deputy stepped forward, holding a thick stack of legal documents stamped with a red judicial seal.
"Constance Pierce and Dalton Pierce?"
May you like
"Yes?" Dalton said, coming up behind his mother.
"I am Deputy Miller," the officer said coldly. "We are here to execute an Emergency Writ of Restitution and Eviction Order. You have thirty minutes to collect your personal belongings and vacate these premises immediately."
