Chapter 2

The next morning, Alfred ate the breakfast I'd made as if nothing had happened, and before he left, he didn't forget to needle me a little:

"Don't forget to take Sienna back to the countryside this afternoon. Kids need to taste some hardship before they learn to be grateful."

I stared at his hypocritical face and answered without a flicker.

The moment the door shut, I pulled out my phone.

Evangeline had joined the company six months ago. Back then, to get on my good side as the president's wife, she'd added me herself on social media.

I hadn't paid it any mind before, but now that I opened her feed, I realized there was a whole other story buried in it.

This wasn't the first time Alfred had played her sugar daddy.

Posted from an upscale Japanese restaurant: Grateful for the ray of light in my life that let Seth taste his first black pearl cherries.

In the corner of the photo, Alfred's usual Richard Mille watch was plainly visible.

A close-up of a Chanel bag: He said a strong woman deserves the best reward.

That was the very one Alfred had refused to buy me last month, on our wedding anniversary, using "the bad economy" as his excuse.

I screenshotted every last piece of evidence, saved them all, bundled them together, and sent them to my lawyer.

"Help me settle our marital property and draft a divorce agreement."

That afternoon, my lawyer messaged to say that Alfred also had two hidden shell companies under his name, and that his original identity documents would be needed to dig deeper.

I grabbed the house keys and the documents Alfred had left behind that morning, and took a cab to his company.

I had just reached the door of the president's office.

Through the half-open door came Evangeline's sweet, simpering voice.

"Mr. Lyons, these Chilean cherries are so expensive. You really should keep them for yourself."

I froze mid-step.

Yesterday, when I took Sienna to the supermarket, she'd stood there swallowing hard, staring at cherries that cost over a hundred a pound. Alfred had snapped at her on the spot, calling her a big-mouthed, greedy little spendthrift, and dragged our daughter away.

But now, through the crack in the door.

I could see it clear as day: Alfred, in his suit and tie, sitting on the sofa, patiently pitting the washed cherries one by one and feeding them into the mouth of Evangeline's six-year-old son, Seth.

Seth ate, spitting the juice out onto the expensive carpet as he went.

Alfred wasn't the least bit annoyed. With a doting look on his face, he took a tissue and wiped the boy's mouth.

"Expensive? So what? As long as Seth likes them, Uncle Alfred will buy them for you every single day from now on."

Evangeline's eyes shimmered, and she shyly rested her hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"Mr. Lyons, you're so good to Seth. A widow and her fatherless boy like us—I really don't know how we'll ever repay you."

Alfred took the cue and clasped her fair, soft hand, his gaze melting, his tone suggestive.

"You've had it hard too. As long as you're happy every day, that's the best repayment I could ask for."

I stood outside the door, my nails digging into my palm.

My own daughter had been scolded until she couldn't lift her head over three thousand dollars, and right now she was waiting at home, eyes full of hope, for me to take her to buy discount sneakers.

And my husband was here, waiting hand and foot on another woman's son with the most expensive imported fruit.

He even wanted to sleep with the boy's mother.

I forced down the urge to kick the door open and slap that shameless pair across the face, and quietly turned on the recorder on my phone.

"Uncle Alfred, I want that newest Transformers. Mom says it's too expensive and won't buy it for me."

Seth suddenly pointed at the tablet on Alfred's desk and started to whine.

Without a second thought, Alfred waved his hand.

"Done! Uncle Alfred will have it delivered to your house tomorrow!"

Evangeline gave his chest a light little punch.

"Oh, you spoil him too much. Your wife will throw a fit again if she finds out."

Alfred let out a cold snort, his voice thick with distaste.

"Don't bring up that washed-up old hag. All she knows how to do is hold out her hand for money all day. It's my money—I'll spend it on whoever I want. Who is she to tell me otherwise?"

Listening to the conversation recorded crisp and clear on my phone, an icy smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

Fine. Very good.

Alfred, you've probably forgotten.

Who exactly is it that lets you sit in this office throwing your weight around.