Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
I turned my back on the airport glass and walked toward the exit. My work here was done. The poison was in the bloodstream; now I just had to let it work. I got into my car and drove toward the one place Jack would inevitably run to. Our home. The sprawling, five-bedroom estate in the suburbs that he loved to show off. The house that, on paper, belonged entirely to an LLC controlled by Gerald. Jack never read the fine print. He was too arrogant for paperwork.
My phone didn't stop vibrating for the entire forty-minute drive. Forty-seven missed calls from Jack. Twelve from Carol. Eight from Ashley. They were finally realizing that all their separate disasters shared one common denominator. Me. When I pulled into the driveway, the house was dark and quiet. It felt like a tomb. I walked inside, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos I had just unleashed. I didn't cry. I didn't throw things. I methodically went upstairs to the master bedroom. I opened his closet.
I didn't pack my bags. I packed his. I grabbed heavy-duty black trash bags from the kitchen. I swept his expensive suits—the ones I had tailored for him—into the plastic. His designer shoes. His golf shirts. His imported cologne. I tossed them all into the bags like they were actual garbage. Because that's what they were now. Traces of a man who no longer existed to me.
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By the time I dragged the last bag to the front porch, the sun was beginning to set. I poured myself a glass of red wine. I sat in the velvet armchair by the front window, waiting. I knew he wouldn't go to Paris. He couldn't. He had no money to get on that plane. At 7:45 PM, headlights swept across the living room walls. An Uber pulled into the driveway. Jack stepped out. He was alone. Chloe was nowhere to be seen. Faced with a sudden financial crisis and a weeping mother, the shiny new mistress had clearly bailed.
Jack ran up the steps, his face a mask of rage and terror. He saw the black trash bags on the porch. He froze. He stared at them for a long moment. Then, he slowly turned the handle of the front door. I had left it unlocked. He walked into the foyer, breathing heavily, his suit wrinkled, his hair a mess. He looked into the living room and saw me. I took a sip of my wine. "Surgery ended early, Doctor?" I asked calmly. His jaw clenched. The game was over. And it was time to collect my winnings.
