Chapter 4 - The Mask of the Dutiful Wife
The scent of the lilies hung heavy and sickening in the narrow doorway between us.
Julian’s eyes scanned my face, searching for any fracture in my composure.
For ten years, he had seen me crumble under the slightest emotional strain.
He expected me to be weak, pliable, and completely transparent.
I leaned against the doorframe, forcing a weary, fragile smile onto my lips as I pressed a hand against my stomach.
“I was looking for the spare bottle of antacids you keep in your desk drawer,” I said, letting my voice sound faint and hoarse.
“My stomach has been in knots all day, Julian. That dinner last night completely wrecked me.”
The suspicion in his eyes melted instantly into condescending superiority.
He chuckled softly, stepping past me into the office and tossing the lilies onto the mahogany desk.
“I told you my mother’s cooking is too rich for your sensitive system, Claire,” he said, shaking his head.
“You never listen to me when I tell you to pace yourself.”
He reached out, cupping my cheek in his warm palm—the same hand that had forged my signature to steal another woman's baby.
It took every ounce of psychological strength in my body not to flinch away from his skin.
“I came home early to check on you,” he continued smoothly, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.
“You never take sick days from work. It worried me.”
“I just needed to rest,” I murmured, looking down at his polished leather shoes.
“The stomach bug hit me out of nowhere.”
Julian smiled, pleased by my apparent vulnerability.
“Well, go lay down on the sofa downstairs. I’ll make you some chamomile tea.”
“You’re too good to me, Julian,” I whispered.
“I know,” he replied without a shred of irony.
I walked slowly down the stairs, maintaining the facade of a sick, weakened woman until I reached the privacy of the kitchen.
Once his footsteps settled in the upstairs hallway, I pulled out my phone and sent a rapid, encrypted message to Sophie’s burner device:
I have the files. All of them. Including the medical records and the offshore bank statements.
Two seconds later, the reply flashed:
Julian called my old landlord twenty minutes ago looking for me. He knows I left the apartment.
My fingers flew across the keyboard:
Stay inside the room. Do not open the door for anyone. I am contacting an attorney outside his father’s network right now.
I deleted the messages, cleared the cache, and placed the kettle on the stove.
Julian walked into the kitchen a few moments later, unbuttoning his cuffs.
“My mother called while I was driving home,” he said casually, leaning against the marble island.
“She wants us to come over again on Wednesday for dinner.”
I kept my back turned to him as the water began to simmer.
“Wednesday? We just saw them yesterday.”
Julian poured himself a glass of filtered water, his tone deliberately light.
“Marta is flying to Berlin on Friday for a conference, so Mom wants the whole family together one more time.”
“Plus, she said she wants to talk to you about something important.”
A cold chill traveled down my spine.
I knew exactly what Helga wanted to talk about.
They were going to stage the intervention.
They were going to reveal Sophie’s pregnancy, paint Sophie as an unstable junkie who abandoned the child, and present the baby to me as a tragic gift from heaven.
They were preparing to drop the forged adoption papers in front of me while playing the role of benevolent saviors.
“What does she want to talk about?” I asked, turning around with an innocent look.
Julian took a slow sip of water, his eyes gleaming with hidden amusement.
“Just family matters, Claire. You know how she is.”
“She thinks it’s time we made some big changes around here.”
“Changes?” I prompted gently.
“Life changes,” he said vaguely, offering another rehearsed smirk. “You’ll see on Wednesday.”
The whistling kettle broke the silence.
I poured the boiling water into a ceramic mug, watching the steam rise into the cool afternoon air.
They thought they were setting a trap for me in forty-eight hours.
They believed I would sit at their dining table, weeping with gratitude, and welcome my husband's illegitimate child with open arms.
They had no idea that Wednesday dinner was not going to be my submission.
It was going to be their public execution.
“I can’t wait,” I said softly, handing Julian the empty mug to carry for me.
“I always love hearing what your mother has planned for us.”
Julian smiled, thoroughly convinced that the world remained completely under his control.
“Good girl,” he murmured, kissing the top of my head.
“Everything I do, Claire... I do it for this family.”
I followed him into the living room, feeling the heavy flash drive resting securely against my thigh.
Forty-eight hours.
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That was all the time I had to transform this mountain of digital evidence into an unshakeable legal noose.
And the first step was securing an attorney who Klaus Bennett couldn't buy.
