Chapter 3 - Cracks in the Foundation
By the second month, the cracks in Connor's empire started to show.
It began with minor inconveniences. A major supplier suddenly demanded upfront payment instead of their usual ninety-day credit term.
Then, two of Vanguard's biggest clients—companies secretly influenced by the Vance family board—announced they would not be renewing their contracts for the upcoming fiscal year.
From the guest room, I could hear Connor pacing the hardwood floors late into the night, yelling into his phone.
"What do you mean they pulled out?!" he shouted one evening, the sound echoing down the hallway. "We've had that account for four years! Get them back on the phone!"
He was stressed, but his arrogance remained untouched.
Instead of looking at the structural flaws in his business, he blamed his employees. He fired two vice presidents in one week.
Alyssa, meanwhile, was entirely focused on the wedding.
She hired the city's most expensive event planner. She ordered imported orchids from Thailand. She spent hours on the phone with caterers, demanding truffles and caviar.
She cornered me in the kitchen one morning while I was washing Brinley's bottles.
"You're still here?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "You know you only have three weeks left, right?"
I didn't stop scrubbing the bottle. "I know."
"Connor is stressed enough with work," she sighed dramatically, rubbing her small belly. "Having his ex-wife hovering around like a stray dog isn't helping. You really should just pack your bags and go back to whatever trailer park you crawled out of."
I turned off the faucet and dried my hands slowly.
I looked at Alyssa. She was wearing my favorite silk robe, sipping green juice from a glass I had bought in Italy.
"A trailer park," I repeated softly.
"Well, you clearly don't belong in a place like this," she sneered. "Some women are meant to build empires. Others are just meant to be stepping stones. You were a stepping stone, Clara. Thanks for keeping him warm for me."
She turned on her heel and strutted out of the kitchen.
I didn't feel angry. I only felt a cold, calculated sense of pity.
They were dancing on the deck of a sinking ship, arguing over the color of the tablecloths while the water was already rushing into the engine room.
Later that afternoon, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Richard Sterling.
The final domino is in place. The bank has reviewed Vanguard's suddenly dropping valuations. They are preparing to call in his business loans.
I typed back a single sentence.
Hold the notice until the wedding day.
I walked over to the small closet in the guest room and pulled out a garment bag I had hidden behind my old winter coats.
I unzipped it, revealing a stunning, custom-tailored crimson dress. It was a dress that commanded attention. A dress made for a woman who was no longer hiding in the shadows.
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Connor wanted a memorable wedding.
I was going to give him one.
