39. Sorry, Beyonce
"Sorry," Beyonce
Victoria
“There she is, Vickie Sinclair,” Rebekkah said, loud enough to draw the attention of dozens of women on the patio. “The homewrecker.”
“I’m only here for my beloved grandfather’s birthday party,” I said, a reminder that I’d been born into this life, whereas she’d clawed her way up through marriage.
Behind Rebekkah, Eric emerged from the house in a rush. His alarmed eyes scanned the deck until they met mine, but he stopped abruptly when I gave him a minuscule headshake. I wanted him nearby in case shit went down, but I had to face this battle.
“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Rebekkah said, her voice sickly sweet. “We both know why you’re here.”
I kept my voice deceptively calm. “Enlighten me.”
Rebekkah tucked her hair behind her ear as an excuse to wiggle that ring, her lips twisting smugly when she caught me tracking it. “Spencer predicted this: As soon as that lawyer dumped you, he’d finally hear from his heartless ice queen ex-wife, begging him to take her back.”
The crowd hissed, leaning closer to catch every word. I pressed down the rage building in my chest, averting my eyes from Rebekkah’s sneer and letting them drift to Eric, who tapped his thumb on the side of his nose. Protect the moneymaker.
“I’m not sure what lies he fed you,” I said, crossing my arms, “but I left Spencer.”
“And you’ve regretted it ever since. You’re pretending to be happy with your new teenage boyfriend and boring upstate life and those awful crow’s feet, but I know you.” She leaned closer, like she was sharing a secret. “You’re trying to break up my marriage, because you want it all back for yourself. Including my townhouse.”
My breath caught in my throat with the memory of Mom kissing my forehead on the front steps, promising she’d make it to my piano recital … and never coming home. Dad and I moved out, leaving the place vacant for a decade. Then after Spencer and I returned from our honeymoon, Richard handed him the keys, urging us to fill it with his grandkids.
Spencer demanded the townhouse in the divorce, claiming he deserved it since he’d stayed in New York. He’d been shocked when I’d told my divorce attorney that I’d rather lose the house than my dignity.
I’d bargained that house in exchange for my freedom …
And this bitch had the gall to call it hers ?
“Spencer said you were so uptight you wouldn’t let him update anything. The minute I moved in, I tore out all that hideous old shit.”
I felt my nostrils flare, my fists clench, and my weight shift into my back heel. I didn’t care how beautiful she was or how many people were watching … I was ready to let her have it.
“Here’s your wine, babe,” Eric said cheerfully with a steadying hand on my back, faking ignorance that he’d just stepped into the simmering fight. “What’d I miss?”
I sipped to cool my nerves, relieved he’d diffused the bomb in my chest before it exploded. “I was just catching up with Rebekkah Larsson.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about you,” Eric grinned. “Becky with the Good Hair, right?”
I bit my lip as Rebekkah bristled. “You must be the personal trainer she pays for happy endings,” she snipped, scanning his body appreciatively. “At least the lawyer made sense, he was as boring as she is. But she expects us to believe this?”
“You’re right, I’m no lawyer, not nearly as smart as her, which I guess is why there’s something I can’t figure out.” He scratched his chin, stroking the phantom beard I’d shaved off. “Victoria’s bought and sold dozens of houses since she left New York. Why would she still care about your townhouse?”
“She’s out to get my husband, to ruin his life again,” Rebekkah snarled. “That controlling bitch promised it to Spencer but never took her name off the deed.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in: ??I still owned the townhouse. I’d told my attorney to forfeit my rights, but something must have gone awry with the paperwork. Or somebody intervened. Is that what Richard meant this morning about making it up to me?
And if I still owned the townhouse …
I could evict Spencer and reclaim the life I’d abandoned with my head held high. I could find a new job, nowhere near Sinclair Larsson. I could live in that house I loved …
Alone.
I wouldn’t work with Alexander and Connor in the Greek Revival I’d bought for us.
I wouldn’t have cocktail hour tequila shots or fashion shows with Mallory and Kate.
I wouldn’t run with Eric every morning, or see his band play at Donnelly’s, or have mind-blowing sex and fall asleep in his arms.
Unaware of my internal struggle, Eric feigned confusion. “What’s the big deal? Can’t you just buy another house?”
Rebekkah’s lips parted, her shoulders slumping for a millisecond before she recovered.
And that’s when it hit me: The Larssons were broke.
I exhaled, releasing tension that felt like it had been lingering in my muscles for decades, as my mouth lifted into a smug smile.
Spencer had always been impulsive with money, buying flashy clothes and trading in his new cars. But if what Margot said was true, that Spencer’s dad had been indicted for tax evasion and his properties had been seized …
My townhouse was all they had left.
The only reason they would have checked the deed was if it saved their asses from being kicked out.
That’s why he wanted the promotion and subsequent raise: Whether or not he had his father’s shares, he couldn’t cash them out without raising suspicion. When he’d heard that Alexander and I broke up, he’d started the rumors that we’d patched things up, hoping that would strengthen his case with board members. And since he expected me to arrive alone and heartbroken, I was his Plan B. He’d leave his wife in a second to get his hands back on my bank accounts.
Well … fuck him.
I straightened to my full height, looking down my nose at this squatter. “Oh Becky,” I said, shaking my head with false compassion. “If you want to keep living in my townhouse, you should rethink your tone with your Ice Queen landlady.”
“Wait,” Rebekkah said. “I can explain. Maybe we can—”
“Can somebody track down my errant ex-husband?” I hollered to the audience eating up this drama, chronicling every moment for future retellings. “Tell him for every minute I wait, I’ll raise his rent.”
The gossip network finally worked in my favor as calls for Spencer passed into the house. I rubbed my hands together, scrubbing off my responsibility for their recklessness.
While we waited, I turned to Eric, who muttered, “Lucy, you got some ‘splaining to do.”
I chuckled, wrapping my arms around his neck as an idea occurred to me. “You wanna get out of here?”
“What, ditch the party and go back to our room?”
“No, ditch the party and go home.”
Home . The first time I called Saratoga Springs home. The music conservatory was no longer my solace. I wanted to be in my apartment, with my cat, in our building ...
With him.
“Dad said I had to be seen, and this little display ensures everyone knows I was here.”
“Aren’t you supposed to talk to him tonight?”
“He kept me in the dark on enough. He can wait,” I said. “If we leave now, we can order takeout and sleep at my place.”
His mouth lifted into a mischievous smile. “I don’t think there will be much sleeping, baby.”
Pressing one more kiss to those irresistible lips, I said, “I’ll tie up this loose end, you pack and pull around the getaway car.”
As Eric went upstairs to orchestrate our escape, Spencer came barreling through the crowd, wide-eyed and breathless. He’d taken me by surprise last night with his unexpected appearance and half-assed apology, an ambush predator attacking from behind. But I didn’t need to rely on smoke screens and cheap tricks.
He stumbled closer, taking me by the wrist. “Vickie, what are you—?”
“Don’t touch me,” I hissed, instinctively twisting my wrist into his thumb to break his grasp. “Becky and I had a nice chat.”
He noticed his distressed wife, then ran his hand over his face. “She wasn’t supposed—”
I put a finger over his lips. “I heard about your updates to my townhouse.”
He inhaled sharply, glaring at his wife before that calm veneer returned. “She doesn’t understand real estate, so it’s not—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” I snapped, annoyed that he was throwing her under the bus. “I can check public records.”
His lips flattened, his shoulders sagged, and I clocked the exact moment he realized he was fucked. “What do you want from me?”
I paused to appreciate the milestone: For the first time in the 21 years since we started dating, he asked what I wanted instead of just taking what he thought he deserved.
The answer felt clear: More than his apology or my townhouse …
I wanted him out of my life.
“I’ll let you stay if I never have to fucking talk to you again.”
“Really? That’s all?” he said, brows lifted in surprise. I know my reputation preceded me—I’d cultivated my cold ruthlessness for moments like this—but his surprise still hurt.
“Eviction is a legal headache, and I don’t care about you enough to bother,” I said coolly, mentally drafting terms and conditions that would keep me safe. “The house stays in my name. I’ll send a rental agreement, fair market value, to be signed within 15 days. Plus five years of back rent as a security deposit.”
He nodded sheepishly as I slid my Dior sunglasses over my eyes. And with my head held high, I walked out of that awful house forever.