Chapter 5 - The Woman in My Jacket
On Monday morning, I waited until Daniel kissed my cheek and drove off in his Audi before initiating Phase One.
I dressed with clinical precision: charcoal slacks, a tailored cream silk blouse, dark sunglasses, and an antique gold watch that had belonged to my grandmother. I didn't look like a woman whose marriage had unraveled on a giant screen; I looked like an auditor ready to dismantle a empire.
I tracked Elena Cross to a boutique coffee shop on Newbury Street in Boston’s Back Bay.
She was sitting by the window, sketching floor plans on an iPad Pro, a half-empty oat milk latte sitting beside her. Draped carelessly over the back of her chair was the navy blue jacket. Up close, in the harsh morning sunlight, the little white paint mark near the pocket screamed like a siren.
I walked into the shop, the brass bell above the door chiming softly. I didn't hesitate. I walked straight to her table and pulled out the chair across from her.
She looked up, startled, a polite but distant smile touching her lips. "Excuse me? I'm actually waiting for someone."
"He's not coming, Elena," I said evenly, removing my sunglasses.
Her smile faltered. She blinked, taking in my face, my composure, the cold stillness in my eyes. "Do I know you?"
"You're wearing my husband's jacket," I said, pointing a finger at the navy wool hanging behind her. "Or rather, the jacket I purchased at Barneys for his thirty-fifth birthday. The scuff mark on the pocket is from our garage wall. He told you he bought it in London, didn't he?"
The blood drained from Elena's face so rapidly I thought she might faint. Her fork rattled against her porcelain plate. "I... what? Who are you?"
"I'm Lauren Vance," I replied smoothly. "Daniel’s wife."
Elena’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated panic. She pushed her chair back, her breath hitching. "No. No, that's impossible. Daniel is divorced. His ex-wife lives in Seattle—she was an addict, she took everything—"
A bitter laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. "An addict in Seattle? That's creative. Seven years of marriage, Elena. We live in a four-bedroom colonial in Dover. We share a joint checking account, three dogs, and a lawn-care service. And up until forty-eight hours ago, I believed he was working late to buy us a beach house."
Elena covered her mouth with both hands. Tears immediately welled in her hazel eyes, spilling over her mascara. "Oh, God. Oh, God, no. He... he told me we were looking at condos together next month. He bought me this ring—" She yanked a sapphire band off her finger as if it had suddenly turned into white-hot metal.
I leaned forward, lowering my voice to a sharp whisper. "Stop crying. Cry later. Right now, you need to listen to me very carefully if you don't want to spend the next twenty years in a federal penitentiary."
"What are you talking about?" she sobbed, looking around frantically to see if the other patrons were watching. "I didn't do anything! I didn't know he was married! I swear to God, Lauren, I didn't know!"
"I believe you," I said, and to my own surprise, I realized I actually did.
Elena wasn't a cold, calculating sociopath. She was a trophy. A twenty-seven-year-old prop Daniel had used to stroke his fragile ego while his world collapsed around him. She was an accessory, just like the jacket.
"You didn't know about me," I continued, sliding a manila folder across the marble tabletop. "But did you know that your design firm, *Cross Interiors*, was registered last month as the primary recipient of four point two million dollars wired from an offshore entity in the Cayman Islands?"
Elena stared at the folder as if it were a coiled viper. "What? No. My firm is just me and an intern. We barely clear six figures."
"Open it," I commanded.
With trembling hands, she flipped open the cover. Inside were copies of wire transfers bearing her forged digital signature, transferring stolen funds from my family trust into an account bearing her corporate tax ID, which was then funneled directly into dummy corporations controlled by Julian Mercer’s syndicate.
"Daniel didn't just sleep with you, Elena," I said, the venom in my voice laced with cold pity. "He set you up as his patsy. If the authorities catch up to the missing millions, the paper trail ends at your desk. You take the fall for grand larceny and wire fraud, while Daniel disappears with a new identity."
Elena let out a choked sound, her face buried in her hands. "Why would he do this? Why would he do this to anyone?"
"Because he owes twenty million dollars to loan sharks who will peel his skin off if he doesn't pay by Friday," I said, leaning in closer. "And because he thinks both of us are too stupid, too weak, and too sentimental to fight back."
Elena raised her tear-streaked face. "What... what do we do?"
I smiled, a cold, predatory smile that felt entirely alien to my former self.
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"We give him exactly what he wants," I said. "Until the moment we pull the rug out from under his feet."
***
