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Chapter Five

“Mrs. Calloway.” I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Please, have a seat.” I smooth out my skirt before sitting behind my desk.

“You can call me Britney,” she says.

“So, tell me what I can do for you.”

“I found out my husband is cheating on me, and I want to file for divorce.”

“Okay. Do you know how long the affair has been going on?”

“About six months.” She looks down in embarrassment.

I don’t blame her for being embarrassed. I know I would be. It’s humiliating when your husband doesn’t find you attractive anymore and seeks the company of another woman. Not that I would know because I have never been cheated on, but I know how I would feel—humiliated.

“Here is a list of all of our assets.” She hands me a file folder loaded with papers inside.

I opened it and did a quick scan. “Thank you. We’ll be needing this at a later date.”

“Nothing is negotiable, Mrs. Tate. I want the apartment in the city, the house in the Hamptons, and I believe I’m entitled to half his money. I’m not budging on a single thing.” She folds her arm.

“Is there a prenup?” I ask.

“No. There isn’t. We had very little when we got married.” Tears begin streaming down her cheeks. “I gave him twenty years of my life. I cooked, cleaned, cared for our two children, and did all the shopping, while he was out screwing around. I know there were probably more women over the years, but she’s the only one I learned about.”

“May I ask how you found out?”

“The constant late meetings at the office and the lack of sexual interest. But the last straw was when he forgot my birthday. The look on his face told me everything when I confronted him about not acknowledging my birthday two days later. He lied and said he lost track of the days and didn’t realize what day it was. That night, I went through his phone while he was sleeping and found text messages and racy photographs.”

“I’m so sorry this happened to you. Do you know the woman?”

“I do. She works at his office. Cliché, right? I hate that man so much.” More tears streamed from her eyes.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to bleed your husband dry. By the time I’m finished with him, he’ll be sorry he ever laid eyes on that other woman.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tate.” She stood and extended her hand.

“You can call me Kat.” A sympathetic smile falls on my lips.

After a long day, I insert the key into the lock and push open the front door, dropping my purse and black leather Christian Louboutin Cabata tote next to the foyer table. I have work to do, but not right now. I need to change out of my work clothes and into something more comfortable.

I go upstairs to the bedroom and pull a pair of black Lululemon leggings from the dresser drawer and a pink zip-up hoodie from the closet. After slipping my feet into my UGG slippers, I descend the stairs and hear my phone pinging in the kitchen. I picked it up from the island and noticed three text messages from Oliver.

Don’t make dinner for me. A client just came in from out of town, and I have to meet with him. I’m sorry, darling.

I promise to make it up to you.

Kat?

My heart aches because I hate it when he works late. After my day, I only looked forward to spending the evening with my husband.

Sorry, I was upstairs changing and didn’t hear my phone. What time do you think you’ll be home?

Pretty late. Don’t wait up. If I could cancel, I would. But this client just flew all the way from Los Angeles, and he wants to meet for dinner.

Can’t you tell him you have plans for tonight and meet with him tomorrow? I’m sure he’s in New York for more than one night.

I wish I could, darling. Unfortunately, he’s one of those clients who dislikes waiting. We can’t afford for him to go elsewhere. I don’t have a choice. I’m sorry.

It’s okay. I understand. I have work to do tonight anyway.

I love you, Kat. I’ll be extra quiet when I come in so I don’t wake you. I love you so much.

I love you, too.

I planned on making pasta carbonara for dinner, but now I’m not. I’m not going through all that trouble just for me, so I grab the menu to the Chinese place around the corner. I pour a glass of Pinot and walk into the living where my eyes catch the painting Eyes Without a Face. A chill courses through my body. Why? I have no idea. Oliver is right. The painting is creepy, but I’m drawn to it for some reason.

The ringing of the doorbell startles me from the painting. I open the door and smile at Mr. Kim, who is holding a plastic bag in his hand.

“Good evening, Mrs. Tate.” He smiles, handing me the bag.

“Good evening, Mr. Kim.” I pull some cash from my hoodie pocket and hand it to him.

“Thank you.” He nods. “Enjoy your dinner.”

“You know I always do,” I say. I gently shut the door and retreat to the kitchen, setting the plastic bag on the Caesarstone island. The tantalizing scent of General Taos Chicken wafts up from the container, making me realize how hungry I am. I grab a plate from the cabinet and carefully scoop a generous serving of the savory dish onto it. Next, I reach for the grease-stained glassine bag and deftly unwrap the egg roll, setting it on the plate next to the chicken.

I look around for my wine glass and remember leaving it in the living room. Taking my plate to the table, I set it down and walk into the living room, where my wine sits on the coffee table. I grab it and momentarily stare at the painting again—Eyes Without a Face.