Chapter 3 - The Mistress and the MirageBy noon, Everett’s controlled universe was unraveling faster than a cheap sweater. He dismissed Marcus with a wave of his hand, too proud to let his panic show any further, but the moment the office door clicked shut, he slammed his fist into the glass wall, leaving a dull smudge where his knuckles met pane.
He needed an anchor. He needed someone who didn't look at him like a falling king.
Without thinking, Everett grabbed his keys and drove his Bentley downtown to the luxury high-rise apartment on Superior Street where Maren Vale lived. Maren—twenty-eight, ambitious, sharp-tongued, and uncomplicated. She didn't ask questions about corporate ledgers or missing wives. She just wanted the designer bags, the weekend trips to Aspen, and the reflected glow of his success.
He buzzed up, letting himself into the sunlit penthouse with his spare key.
The apartment smelled of expensive jasmine candles and espresso. Maren was lounging on the velvet sofa in a silk robe, scrolling through her tablet.
"Everett?" She looked up, her painted lips curving into a practiced smile. "You look terrible. Did the board give you a hard time?"
Everett didn't answer. He walked straight across the living room, dropped his keys onto the marble console table, and sank heavily onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands.
Maren set her tablet down, her expression shifting from playful to annoyed. "Hey. I’m talking to you. What’s wrong?"
"My wife is gone," Everett muttered through his fingers.
Maren blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Gone? What do you mean, gone? Did she pack a bag?"
"She packed her entire life," Everett snapped, lifting his head, his eyes bloodshot. "She cleaned out the master suite, she cut off her phone, and... and she took forty-two million dollars from the corporate trust."
Maren let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Forty-two million? Are you out of your mind? Your quiet little housewife who spends her afternoons arranging flowers took forty million dollars?"
"She has my master proxy, Maren!" Everett shouted, standing up and pacing across the hardwood floor. "She’s been quietly acquiring shares in my own company for three years right under my nose while I was busy building this empire! And now she owns the mortgage on my corporate headquarters!"
Maren stared at him, the color slowly draining from her face. The playful, adoring mistress routine vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, calculating self-preservation. She stood up from the sofa, wrapping her robe tighter around herself.
"Hold on a second," Maren said, her voice dropping its warm cadence. "What do you mean she owns your corporate headquarters?"
"I mean I am looking at corporate insolvency if she calls the debt due by the end of the week!" Everett glared at her. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like that?" Maren scoffed, walking toward the kitchen island. "Everett, let's get one thing straight. I love you, and I love the lifestyle, but I am not hitching my wagon to a sinking ship. If your assets are frozen or tied up in matrimonial litigation, you can't even pay the lease on this penthouse."
May you like
Everett stopped dead in his tracks, staring at her in utter disbelief. "Maren... what are you saying?"
"I'm saying it's over, Everett," she said coldly, picking up her phone from the counter. "Don't call this number again. Find your wife, fix your mess, and leave me out of it."
