Chapter 3 - The Cold Asphalt of ManhattanThe cold autumn wind of Manhattan hit my bare shoulders like a physical blow as the heavy glass doors of the Crown Harbor Hotel swung open behind me.
Flashbulbs immediately exploded in my face.
The paparazzi, tipped off by the high-profile guest list and the sudden commotion at the entrance, surged forward like a tidal wave of shouting voices and clicking camera shutters.
“Mrs. Caruso! Is it true the marriage is over?”
“Look this way, Nora! Did Dominic Caruso strike you?”
“Who is Vanessa Moretti to the Caruso empire?”
I didn't hide my face. I didn't pull down my hair to cover the torn, bleeding earlobe or the swelling bruise rising visibly on my left cheekbone. I let the cameras capture every single detail—the blood, the ruined makeup, the cold defiance in my eyes. Let the world see what five years of absolute devotion to a corporate dynasty bought a woman.
I hailed a yellow cab directly in front of the hotel steps, ignoring the frantic hotel concierge who chased after me offering an umbrella.
“Where to, lady?” the driver asked, eyeing my bruised face through the rearview mirror with sudden discomfort.
“The penthouse on Upper East Side,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
During the fifteen-minute drive through the glittering, indifferent streets of New York, my phone buzzed incessantly in my evening bag.
Screen light flashed over and over.
Dominic: Nora, where are you? Answer your phone. You’re making a catastrophic scene.
Dominic: Vanessa is hysterical. The press is outside. Get back here right now.
Dominic: Don't be childish. We need to present a united front for the investors.
I pulled the phone from my bag, clicked the power button to silence the ringer, and dropped it into the cup holder.
When the cab pulled up outside our secure residential building, I paid the driver with cash, walked past the doorman without a word of explanation, and rode the private elevator up to our penthouse floor.
The apartment was pitch-black and silent.
Eli was fast asleep in his bedroom down the hall, his small chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm, completely unaware of the earthquake that had just demolished our family.
I walked straight into Dominic’s private home study.
The room smelled of expensive leather, aged bourbon, and expensive cologne. His mahogany desk was locked, but Dominic had always been notoriously careless with his digital security, trusting that no one—least of all his quiet, compliant wife—would ever look into his professional archives.
I sat down at his ergonomic leather chair, booted up his secure desktop terminal, and bypassed the primary user login using the master override password he had carelessly written down inside his desk calendar three years ago.
It took me less than three minutes to find what I was looking for.
Nested deep within a hidden folder labeled CDG_Master_Archives_2026, there was a sub-directory named V_Moretti_Lookbook.
My breath caught in my throat as I opened the files.
There were high-resolution photographs of Vanessa Moretti posing in my dress—the asymmetrical ivory gown with the signature shoulder fold.
And beneath the images was a digitized PDF contract, signed by Dominic Caruso and Vanessa Moretti eighteen months ago, granting her full creative credit and executive ownership over the entire winter bridal line.
Written across the margin of the contract in Dominic’s familiar, neat handwriting was a handwritten note:
“Keep Nora busy with the child. Vanessa handles the press. The collection launches tonight.”
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I stared at the screen until the glowing light blurred behind hot, heavy tears that I refused to let fall.
He hadn't just stolen my designs. He had replaced me in every single aspect of his life, keeping me locked in a gilded cage while another woman wore my identity out in the open.
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