Chapter 2 - The Illusion of Control
Monday morning arrived with the crisp efficiency of a high-stakes corporate environment.
I had spent the weekend in a suite at The Plaza, ignoring fifty-two missed calls from Daniel.
I walked into Mercer & Associates at exactly 8:00 AM, holding a latte and wearing my sharpest navy suit.
My best friend and Chief Operations Officer, Elena, met me by the elevators.
“You look like you’re about to fire someone, or buy a small country,” Elena noted, falling into step beside me.
“Maybe both,” I replied smoothly.
“Is Daniel in yet?”
“He’s in his office,” Elena said, her brow furrowing. “He looked like he didn't sleep. And Chloe called in sick.”
“How convenient.”
I pushed open the glass doors of my corner office and set my bag on the desk.
Elena lingered in the doorway. “Nat, what’s going on?”
Before I could answer, Daniel walked in, closing the door firmly behind him.
He was wearing his power suit, the one I had tailored for him in Milan.
“Elena, give us a minute,” Daniel said, trying to inject authority into his voice.
Elena looked at me. I nodded once, and she stepped out.
“You didn't come home,” Daniel said, crossing his arms.
“I don't live there anymore.”
“Stop being dramatic, Natalie. It was a mistake. We’re adults, we can handle this.”
“You didn’t frame it as a mistake on Saturday. You framed it as an act of survival.”
He rubbed his temples, looking genuinely exhausted.
“I was angry. You cornered me. I just need you to see things from my perspective.”
“I do see it,” I said, sitting down at my desk and opening my laptop. “You feel small. So you found a cheerleader.”
“She respects me!” he snapped, his hands slamming onto my desk.
“She respects your title, Daniel. A title I gave you.”
He recoiled as if I had slapped him.
“I am a managing partner here. I earned my place.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said, not looking up from my screen.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you should leave my office before I call security. We have a merger at 2:00 PM.”
He stared at me, searching for the warmth he was used to exploiting.
Finding none, he straightened his tie and marched out.
When the door clicked shut, I picked up my phone and dialed a number I had memorized over the weekend.
“Marcus,” I said when the line connected. “It’s Natalie.”
“Natalie. I assume this isn't a social call.” Marcus was the most ruthless divorce attorney in the city.
“I need a full financial audit of my husband's private accounts. Quietly.”
“Suspecting something?”
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“He cheated,” I said, my voice finally shaking, just a little.
“And a man who feels small enough to cheat in his own bed,” I continued, steadying myself, “is usually trying to make himself feel big somewhere else.”
